


Match Point

by PilgrimDetectives



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Tennis, F/F, M/M, Minor Cora Hale/Lydia Martin, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Multi, POV Derek, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore, Scott is a Good Friend, Tennis, Wimbledon - Freeform, a lot of making out, and misunderstandings, fuck buddies, with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilgrimDetectives/pseuds/PilgrimDetectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wimbledon AU: Derek Hale is an aging tennis star set to take part in his final Wimbledon tournament before he retires. Stiles Stilinski is the up-and-coming American who likes to fool around before matches. Both think they’ve struck the perfect bargain until it starts to affect their games. Then the idiots fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Derek Hale was too young to be this exhausted. He felt as though he’d been running full tilt since he was a child and just when he finally had the opportunity to get out, to be normal, to take it slow, he got sucked right back in.

“This would be your parking spot, of course,” the head of the Circle Arms Club said, gesturing toward a reserved space in the car park with a sign at the head that declared it belonged to the country club’s Tennis Pro.

 _Tennis Pro_ , Derek thought derisively. Because that’s what he was. A professional tennis player. Not for much longer. No, he’d fallen to 119th in the world. No matter what, this would be his last tournament.

He looked around, surveying the grounds. They were perfectly nice. He would be fine, he figured, teaching posh brats and handsy widows alike. It would be peaceful.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

“Looks great, really,” Derek said.

“Wonderful. We can’t wait for you to start.” And then, realizing that Derek’s work at the club was reliant upon him losing the tournament, “That is to say—”

“Yeah,” Derek said, giving him an escape.

He wanted to run, to get in the car and never look back at these manicured lawns and overly inquisitive women who had no understanding of personal boundaries. At least one of them had been so bold as to grope him, but the lot of them, they _leered_.

Derek dredged up a self-deprecating smile. They were so much easier to come by now than when he had been ranked 11th in the world. Fancy that. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

Then he was free, hair rustling in the wind as he drove home. Not his little flat in Brighton, that was more of a flophouse than anything. He hadn’t even had the chance to finish decorating it, too busy training for a sport he was no longer fit for. He pulled up to his parents’ house in Crawley, soothed by the raucously overgrown garden and cluttered kitchen.

“Mum? Dad?” Derek called as he let himself in to the drafty house. The only response he got was the murmur of voices from the first storey. “Cora, you home?”

The closer he got to his younger sister’s room, the louder the voices became until the blur of noise sorted itself into a distinct pattern of grunts and moans.

Warily pushing the door open, Derek found Cora stood in front of a punching bag, practicing her boxing as the tabletop telly blared some grainy porn.

“Is that a VHS? Jesus, Cora, why don’t you stream your porn like a normal person?”

“The reception’s shit,” Cora said, not bothering to look at him as she threw another uppercut at the bag. “Now get out. I’ll be damned if neither one of us wins a match this year.”

Sighing, Derek went back downstairs, only to be intercepted by his mother. Talia Hale was an imposing figure, not in stature but in her presence. At times it made her overbearing, but mostly she used her powers for good, too empathetic by half. She herded him toward the dining room, forcing him to set the table as she brought in the heaping piles of food she’d made for dinner. She laid in wait until dinner was underway before starting in on her concerns.

“You’re looking rather gaunt, Derek. Here, have another helping.”

“Mum, stop, I’m fine.”

“You most certainly are not. Now tell me, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Derek said, staring hard at his plate. He pushed his peas around, idly spelling Q U I T. “I’m just focused on the match coming up.”

“Oh, not this again,” Derek’s father said.

“What’s that?” Talia said.

“He doesn’t want us to come watch him play. He thinks if we’re there he won’t win.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… Well, I haven’t ever won when any of you lot are at one of my matches during the tournament. That’s true.”

“Oh, Derek. It shouldn’t matter if we’re there or not,” his mother said. “I believe you to be a truly great tennis player, you’ve just always been afraid to admit it to yourself.”

“I’m not afraid,” Derek said, thinking about how tired he’s been. “I’m old.”

“Don’t be absurd, 31 isn’t old.”

“It is in tennis years. I might as well be your age. And I’m tired of hotels and I’m tired of airports, and long-distance love affairs that never go anywhere.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. The traveling allowed him long-distance love affairs that never went anywhere, that were never serious; short flings with other players and adoring fans he could forget about in the morning. It had been easier that way, ever since his ill-fated affair with international superstar Kate Argent when he’d been a fresh-faced and eager young player, just into his first major tourney.

Even so, he was tired of _meaningless._ He wanted a connection. He wanted something _real_.

“And losing,” Cora said. “Don’t forget that.”

“Yeah, and losing, thanks Cora.”

Cora smirked. Finally, his father spoke. “Derek, remember how I always told you that tennis was a gentleman’s game?” He paused, waiting for Derek’s nod of acknowledgement. “Total bollocks. Everything I ever told you - total bollocks.”

“Dad—”

“No, son. It’s true. Everything,” he said, waving around to encompass the house, their lives, _everything_ , “is senseless. Tennis, sports. Life it isn’t about being a gentleman. Or a lady or whatever. Cora, this is for you, too. Life is about trying. It’s putting in your best effort. You go into the world and you recognize that it doesn’t give one whit of care about you. It owes you nothing. So you go out and you try your damndest and you do it again and again and again. You are in charge of what happens.”

Derek took a second to digest all of this. “You’re still not getting your tickets.”

* * * 

Derek strode into the hotel, glad the tournament, at least, was on his home turf. He couldn’t imagine the weariness he would feel if this were the US or Australian Open. Making his way to the check-in desk, he flashed the receptionist a smile as he collected his room assignment.

“Room 1221, sir. Top floor. One of the suites.”

Puzzled, Derek took the key card. That didn’t seem right.

“I’m sorry, I think you—” he said, but the woman had already turned to help someone else. Sighing, Derek hefted his bags and strode toward the lift.

He had never rated a suite before, not even when he was one of the top ranked players in the world. It made no sense he would be afforded that now. He wasn’t even one of the best English players in this tournament.

Yet when Derek exited the lift, his key worked, no problem. The room was awe-inspiring—an open floor plan that had two separate bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, and _oh,_ the bathroom. The door had been left open, steam billowing out as one of the hottest people Derek had ever seen in his _life_ luxuriated in the shower. Derek couldn’t take his eyes off of those perfect abs, toned arms, and the way his full lips were faintly tilted up, as if he were enjoying Derek’s lechery.

_Shit._

Derek laughed, a nervous chuckle as he was caught blatantly ogling _the hottest man he had ever seen_.

“Fuck,” Derek said.

“You need something?” And oh, that voice was unfair. Smooth as honey and laughing, but more in delight at being appreciated than mocking Derek. He just seemed so _amused._

“No. I mean, I, uh, I think the front desk messed up?” Derek cursed the way he stuttered and stumbled over his words. He was more choked up than he’d been as a teenager for Christ sake. Trying to save himself, he said, “I was expecting something with less of a view.”

The guy smirked and _fuck_ he was barely more than a kid. Derek was going straight to hell, but he didn’t try and stop his eyes from flitting all over the guy. He was lithe, his brown hair wet and mussed, streaming water down to his happy trail and _shit, avert your eyes_ , Derek thought, only to catch on those long, sinuous fingers as they pulled a towel from the back of the bathroom door and wrapped them around his lean hips.

Derek wanted to bite them.

_Dammit._

“The front desk gave me a key for 1221,” Derek said, anything to keep himself from staring any longer.

“Yeah, my 1221, apparently.”

“Yeah, your 1221. I didn’t think I rated a suite anymore.”

“You’re Derek Hale, right?”

“You know who I am?” He hated the way his voice came out all surprised and pleased. This American child did not need any advantage over him. Shit, they’d probably be playing each other during the tournament. Derek needed to get out, now.

“Of course, man. I was obsessed with you when I was younger. I mean, uh, the way you crushed Greenberg in the final round of the Australian Open. That was a thing of beauty.”

“Oh, thanks,” Derek said, feeling the flush suffuse his skin. He needed to get it together. “Stilinski, right? You’ve been making quite a name for yourself.”

“Stiles.”

“Your parents named you Stiles Stilinski?”

“Ha! No, but my first name is a pain and it’s easier for fans, I guess. I don’t know, I didn’t have much of a say in my branding. My agent told me it’d be a better sell and… it’s a long story. But yeah, man, call me Stiles.”

“Stiles, right,” Derek nodded his head, smiling inanely. “Well, I guess I better get out of your hair. Good body.”

“What was that?” God, Stiles’ smirk was downright sinful. Derek could have dropped to his knees right then.

“Goodbye,” Derek corrected. Jesus, he needed to get a grip. “I should go sort this out with the front desk.” (Thank them. Profusely. Biggest tip ever, just like Stiles’— STOP IT, HALE. Keep it together.)

Before Stiles could say anything else, Derek slipped out of the front door, not feeling safe until the lock clicked into place behind him.

Twenty minutes later found Derek letting himself into his actual room. He looked around the cramped, minimalistic space – nothing more than a double bed and simple bathroom. _Yup_ , Derek thought, _this feels right._


	2. Chapter 2

The first day that Derek was cleared to use the Wimbledon practice courts, he turned on the telly as background noise and set about his day. A familiar voice drifted through the air as he stepped out of the shower. 

“Yeah, you know, it’s funny. I get asked about it all the time like there’s going to be a ‘BREAKING NEWS’ chyron about a young, gay tennis player. But I like to keep my personal life private. And, I have to agree with my dad on this one, sometimes it gets in the way.”

Stiles’ voice lured Derek back towards the screen, his towel forgotten where it was slung haphazardly around his hips. Everything was in soft focus except for Stiles, where he spoke on the TV, answering the reporter’s question about Stiles’ history at getting angry with chair umpires.

“I wouldn’t get angry if they wouldn’t get the calls wrong. I’m a passionate dude. Maybe going over the top sometimes is what I need to do to play my best. Whatever it is, that’s what I’m going to do. That’s why I came here, you know? To win Wimbledon.”

The report continued on with coverage of various other athletes set to play during the tournament, so Derek turned off the TV, his mind stuck on Stiles, repeating the phrase _young, gay tennis player_ until he had to sit on the edge of the bed.

If he hadn’t known for sure that Stiles was interested in men, if he had any chance at all of deluding himself into thinking that he never had a chance with him, maybe Derek could have given up on Stiles right then and there. But from the moment he set eyes on him in the wrong hotel room—hell, way before then if he was serious with himself. Seeing Stiles in training camps, passing each other at different tournaments over the last year, following his career on TV—Stiles was on his mind. It was a distracting susurrus that flitted through the back of his mind, preventing his full focus from settling on his upcoming match.

A harsh pounding on his hotel room door distracted Derek from his spiraling thoughts.

“Oy, hurry up,” a muffled voice sounded through the door. Derek opened the door without checking the peep hole, letting his practice partner Vernon Boyd into the small space. “Get off your arse, man. Practice courts are going to disappear right quick.”

“Fuck off,” Derek said, but he moved to put his bag together, pulling a practice shirt from the drawer to throw on.

“Come on. There’s this Spanish lass, Erica Reyes, playing in the tourney and I think I have a chance with her.”

“Reyes, huh? I’ve seen her play,” Derek said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and herding Boyd toward the door. “Way out of your league.”

Boyd disappeared within minutes of them arriving at the practice courts, having made eye contact with Erica. After seeing her in person, Derek couldn’t really blame Boyd for his distraction; she was gorgeous. But Derek had other things to focus on, like his serve.

After gathering a few empty ball sleeves and setting them up across the court, Derek retreated to practice methodically knocking them all down. It had started as a game when his dad was still the one in charge of his training, just a fun exercise they would do before they rallied a few rounds on the court. But the practice had always soothed Derek, giving his mind something to focus on, a few small targets to knock down at a time.

He lined up his first shot, taking aim at the sleeve on the far side of the court. He rocked back on his heel, ready to toss his ball in the air, only for his target sleeve to disappear, flying back beyond the court’s lines.

Derek dropped his arms, looking around for the culprit.

“Oops, sorry. Wrong court,” Stiles said, smirk firmly in place. Derek wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch it or kiss it.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “You’re just awful.”

“Please, like that was hard.”

“Fine. Five quid says you can’t do it again.”

“You’re on.”

Derek liked the way the challenge put a glint in Stiles’ eye. He backed out of the way to allow Stiles the space to serve from the actual court.

“I’m aiming for the one on the right. Just, you know, so you don’t think I’m cheating.”

“Sure, sure,” Derek said. “Now hurry up and serve.”

“Bossy,” Stiles said, throwing Derek a wink before rocking back on his heel and serving the ball up in one fluid movement. It easily struck the intended sleeve off the line, tumbling back across the court and out of bounds.

“Nice form,” Derek said. “You’re exceeding my expectations.”

“Your turn,” Stiles challenged. “If you win I’ll buy you fish and chips. That’s what you Brits like, right?”

Then it was Derek’s turn to smirk, bouncing the ball leisurely before winding up and serving. The ball sleeve bounced across the clay.

“Not bad,” Stiles said.

“Stiles!” A man shouted, causing the pair to turn. Derek hadn’t realized just how closely they’d been leaning toward one another as they wagered. “Let’s go, we’ve got to go back to the hotel.”

“Sure thing, Dad!” Stiles hollered back. “I’ll be done in a few minutes.” Dropping his voice, Stiles leaned back in toward Derek. “Come on, Hale. Double or nothing.”

Derek nodded, bouncing the ball as he picked his target. Just as he shifted his weight to toss the ball high into the air for his serve, Stiles leaned forward and whispered, “Hit this one and I’ll sleep with you.”

Derek followed through on the serve, willing the ball to knock down one of the remaining sleeves. He’d been running this drill for years, it should have been easy. Instead, the feel of Stiles’ hot breath across his ear, the pulsing desire of _want_ that spread through him at his words, distracted him.

“Shit,” Derek muttered as his ball flew astray, hitting a judge on the side of his head. Shame faced, Derek half-raised his hand in apology, but he feared the effect was ruined as Stiles laughed uproariously next to him.

“Oh man, sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, that was better than I could have hoped.” He paused to wipe a tear from his eye, before standing up straight. “What a shame, seems like you could have used the work out.”

Stiles patted Derek on the stomach, fingers lingering for a moment as they traced the grooves of Derek’s abs through his practice shirt.

He was gone before Derek could come up with a suitable response.


	3. Chapter 3

The night before Derek’s first Wimbledon match, the match he honestly expected would be his last on the professional circuit, he slept soundly. He had laid down with the expectation of futilely tossing and turning all night until he rolled out of bed as soon as the sun’s rays broke over the horizon. Instead, he woke fully rested, showered leisurely, and made his way through the lobby of the hotel, catching one of the hired cars to the tournament grounds.

It all seemed too easy. But he thought, maybe, this is what it felt like to accept fate. To be at ease with the thought that his career was over, and that he had been the one to choose it. If he lost, he would be nothing more than a middling tennis player. Good enough to go pro, but not good enough to win a Major.

Then he walked into the stadium. The crowd roared their approval, and it made Derek’s heart surge, set his blood on fire. This was what he needed.

He wasn’t taking this loss lying down. He was going to fight.

If this was the last tournament of his career, by god he was going to try and win it. Even if his opponent, 19 year old Scottish dynamo Isaac Lahey was rumored to be one of the most promising young talents in the game.

Derek strode onto the springy grass court with resolve.

“Good luck, Mister Hale,” the ball boy said, excitement shining from his eyes as he bounced a couple tennis balls to Derek.

“Thanks,” Derek managed, too tense for anything else.

He took a deep breath, and served.

“Fifteen-Love,” the umpire announced, setting Derek’s heart racing.

_Alright Hale, nice shot. Only another 71 to go._

And then the match really kicked into gear. Lahey’s athleticism was pure, his energy boundless as he sprinted across the court. Derek had never felt older as he watched Lahey dive and roll, trying to salvage any shot that he could.

Before he knew it, Derek had won the game, then the set.

Finally, after what felt like forever, as Derek dripped with sweat and wanted nothing more than to lay on the court and never get up, except maybe to take a nice ice bath, the umpire’s voice rang through the small stadium.

“Match: Derek Hale.”

Derek had known it was coming, had been entirely present as he continued to win games, as he won the first and third sets, but it didn’t feel real. Everything was hazy as he accepted Isaac Lahey’s resigned handshake, and then the umpire’s.

He had passed through the first round of Wimbledon. His career wasn’t over. He wasn’t packing up his small hotel room and going home, not yet. He had won.

Making his way back through the tunnel to the changing room, Derek was met with a buoyant Scott McCall, his agent for the last few years.

“Oh my god, man. That was amazing, congratulations.” Derek didn’t even have a chance to say thanks before Scott was talking again. “Okay, so you have enough time for a quick shower, but then you have the post-game press conference, so make it quick. And I’m going to try and rally this win for at least a minor article somewhere, drum up some publicity. Win another round and maybe we can get you a minor endorsement deal, you know?”

“Sure, Scott.” Derek had figured years ago it was best to let Scott work his energy out in one burst before trying to respond in any way.

“Awesome!” Scott was bouncing around as if he had been the one that had just won a match, so Derek left him to make whatever calls he needed to make, heading off to the showers.

It just didn’t feel real. Not only that he’d won, but that he was playing in Wimbledon. It wasn’t the first time he’d played in his career, but he was a wildcard pick, something the press felt the need to ask about during their mandatory Q&A session.

“Derek, how did you feel about winning a spot in the tournament? Had you been training for it or was it a complete surprise?”

“Well, I never stop training, but yeah, I was shocked when I got the call. I actually saw it on the TV before my manager had a chance to break the news. I’m actually glad that happened, I’m not sure I would have believed him otherwise.”

“And what about this match in particular? How did you feel when you saw that you’d been matched up against Isaac Lahey?”

“Glad I’d been training. I fully expect to one day be the answer to the trivia question ‘who beat Isaac Lahey in his first Grand Slam.’” He paused, wanting to take a moment to appreciate the gravity of what he was about to say. He hadn’t really said the words out loud before, knew they would change things forever. “This is my 13th Wimbledon, and since it may be my last Wimbledon press conference, I want to take this opportunity to announce my retirement from tennis, effective the moment this tourney ends…”

Derek trailed off, realizing he’d lost the attention of the few reporters that had bothered to show up. His big announcement, which took most of his courage to force out, had gone unnoticed as everyone jumped up to see whichever superstar had been swarmed at the entrance.

Derek frowned at the supremely punchable face of up-and-comer American Jackson Whittemore. Derek had only played him a few times, but he couldn’t stand Whittemore’s showboating. A fan-favorite, he thrived off of the audience’s love and affection for him. More than anything, though, Derek was repulsed by the way that Whittemore acted as though he were god’s gift to tennis. He thought himself above reproach, and as if he were the sole reason for people’s interest in the sport.

Resigned to being ignored, Derek quietly stood and exited the room. He had more important things to focus on than that jackass Whittemore.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek let himself back into his hotel room later that afternoon thinking of maybe indulging in a lazy jerk-off session, but definitely in taking a nap. At least, that was his plan until he noticed the flashing red light on his hotel phone. He pressed the button to play though them, expecting nothing more than maybe Boyd asking to meet up.

He was pleasantly surprised when Stiles’ voice floated through the speaker, making the room immediately feel smaller.

“Dude, congratulations on the win! So I was thinking, you still owe me fish and chips. You should bring them my place tonight. That’s room 1221. _My_ 1221\. Six o’clock, don’t be late. Okay, see you later. Oh! This was Stiles. Okay, later.”

The machine beeped to let him know the message had ended, but Derek was frozen, his mind racing to come up with everything he needed to do before meeting up with Stiles. He glanced at the clock. _Shit_ , he only had an hour.

He hopped in the shower, briefly considering jerking off to take the edge off at the prospect of spending time with Stiles later, but he didn’t want to risk being late. Especially since he was planning on running by his favorite takeaway place and it wasn’t exactly close to their hotel.

In the end, he arrived a few minutes late, but he hoped Stiles wouldn’t mind. The smile Stiles had plastered on his face when he opened the door seemed like Derek was in the clear. Derek couldn’t remember the last time someone had smiled at him with that kind of genuine excitement at seeing him.

Never, maybe.

Derek shoved that thought to the back of his head and walked through the door.

Stiles paused in the foyer, letting his eyes rove over Derek’s body, not even trying for subtlety. Derek was ready to thank god. He was ready to drop down to his knees and thank every deity he could think of.

He never got this lucky.

“I’m not hungry yet, are you?” Stiles asked.

Words seemed impossible, so Derek stuck to shaking his head numbly.

 _Please_ , he thought, _please let this play out the way I think it’s going to play out._

“Awesome,” Stiles said, setting the food containers on the counter before striding forward and kissing the shit out of Derek.

Derek had kissed and been kissed by a lot of people, but he couldn’t recall ever being kissed so enthusiastically before. Stiles wasn’t sloppy, but he kissed like he was desperate for it. Like he was only existing until he was kissing Derek and that alone made him come alive.

 _Jesus, this kid should come with a warning label_ , was the last coherent Derek had before he was stepping impossibly closer to Stiles, letting himself get lost in the kiss, get distracted by Stiles' clever tongue and wandering hands.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Stiles had maneuvered them so that Derek’s back was pressed against the wall, Stiles leaning into his space, caging him in, and Derek had forgotten how much he needed this. He loved the way Stiles was taking charge, wanted to whine at the way Stiles scraped his teeth down his neck. It had been so long since he had given up the reins, he desperately wanted to let Stiles call the shots. He didn’t want to be idle, never passive, just to have this one decision made. To let Stiles dominate him.

Stiles had managed to wedge a leg in between Derek’s thighs and Derek was helplessly rocking into it before he even realized it. Just small, thoughtless ruts to ease the ache that Stiles had kindled in him.

God, how Derek _wanted_.

“What do you want?” Stiles asked, nosing gently at Derek’s cheek. Stiles was a study in contradictions, a beautiful dichotomy. Strong and assured, yet gentle and considerate. Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something more than a quickie or a nameless fuck. He’d forgotten what it felt to be truly present with a partner, but here Stiles was, everything that Derek wanted, everything that he _needed_.

“Fuck,” Derek panted, burying his face in Stile’s neck, trying to recoup. He worried at Stiles’ neck, the beautiful constellation of moles that decorated his skin, uncaring if he left marks. He wanted to climb inside Stiles and live there. He wanted Stiles to cover him and consume him. He just wanted. “Bed.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, voice shaky. “Yeah, bed sounds good.”

* * *

“So,” Stiles said, a long while later. They had finally gotten dressed again, boxers and a t-shirt for Stiles and Derek in just his jeans as they stood on Stiles’ balcony. London rippled out below them, a patchwork of bright lights and murmuring voices. Stiles had retrieved their food and, even though it wasn’t as good cold, they were both too hungry to care. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Where do you come down on the whole ‘fooling around before a match’ issue?” Derek noticed the way Stiles’ eyes darted way just a little bit at the end of the question, as if he was unsure of Derek’s answer. As if Derek would ever do anything to deprive himself of Stiles’ body, his company. Of Stiles.

Jesus, they’d just fucked for the first time and Derek was already in deep. This was a nightmare.

“Well that’s a very intriguing question,” Derek hedged. Of course he wanted more Stiles but did he really need to dig himself any deeper? Stiles was at the start of his career, he was from a whole other continent. There was no way this was ending with Derek’s heart intact.

“Yeah, I mean. I think it can be good for your game, you know? Help you relax.”

Derek nodded, pretending the question really needed pondering. He would give anything to make sure he pulled off playing it cool. “I’m not sure I’ve done enough research on the matter to have an informed opinion. But I’m very interested in doing the necessary research. Are you?”

 _That’s it,_ Derek thought. _Put the ball back in his court._

“Not many people know this about me,” Stiles leaned closer and yes, Derek hated secrets, but he wanted this one. “but I _love_ research.”

Derek leaned back, smirking. “I’m sure you do.”

“Oh, dude. You don’t even know.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek said, but he couldn’t keep the gentle smile off of his face as he watched Stiles light up with the topic.

“That’s not even a euphemism. Well, it kind of is. I love sex. But I also really love research. I’m not kidding. Once, in high school, I wrote an essay on the history of male circumcision.”

“That seems—”

“No, Derek. It was not reasonable. It was for my economics class. But my brain, man. It catches on to a topic and then BAM, I have to know everything about it. 

“That’s really cool. I don’t have anything I’m that passionate about.”

“There has to be something. Tennis?”

Derek sighed. “Maybe. Or it used to be, I guess. Not so much anymore.”

“Well, we’ll just have to find something else that you like.”

He made it seem so simple. As if Derek could just close his eyes, spin in a circle, and have a new reason to get up in the morning. But Derek looked around, and all he saw was Stiles.

“So, uh.” Stiles coughed awkwardly and Derek could feel the moment the tone shifted. His hackles were raised when Stiles said, “On a different note, no one can know about this. Us, I mean.”

“Oh,” Derek said, shocked and a little disappointed. “I thought you were out?”

“Yeah, I am, but just. You know how the media is. They see us together and suddenly they think we’re in love or whatever. And my dad, man. He definitely can’t know.”

“Is he… not okay with you being gay?”

That startled a laugh out of Stiles. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. He’s super supportive and all that, I mean, once he finally believed that I was gay.”

“What—”

“It was a whole thing about not looking gay enough? I don’t know, high school was bullshit. Anyway, he’s cool, but he’s got it in his head that me having a guy around makes my first serve ‘mushy’ or something. So, you know, we’ll just keep it light. Have some fun. Maybe more mind-blowing orgasms. I wouldn’t hate it if you did that thing with your tongue again. Frequently.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Derek said, smiling. Even though inside he was already trying to figure out when he and Stiles could next meet up.


	5. Chapter 5

Derek was struggling.

His breathing was ragged and his muscles ached. The end was in sight, taunting him so sweetly.

He ignored the sweat dripping down his back and into his eyes, shook off the cramp that was forming in his left leg, and pushed forward. He was so close, all it would take was one more well placed hit, and –

“Point, Derek Hale,” the umpire’s voice boomed through a stadium that was significantly more crowded than Derek’s first round match.

“Out!” The line judge overruled the umpire’s call, and that was it. Derek was ready to pass out. He really shouldn’t have gone back to bed for another round with Stiles the night before. The sex—the wonderful, athletic sex—had been great, best he’d ever had, but Derek wasn’t sure he had ever been this exhausted in his entire life.

And he still had another set to win.

Instead of collapsing onto the court and waiting for some trainers to drag him away, Derek returned back to the line to serve. He may be retiring from the sport, but he wasn’t a quitter. He would finish, and finish strong. He wasn’t going to end his career lying down.

He rocked back, tossed the ball… and faulted.

No, that was unacceptable. If he lost now, he’d be out of the tournament. His career would be over. He’d probably never see Stiles again.

Derek served.

“Ace!”

_That’s it, Hale. One more set to go,_ he told himself as he took a break to down some water before stepping back on the court. Everything hurt. But, he figured, if everything already hurt, he damn well better leave everything he had on the court.

But all of the pep talks in the world weren’t helping the third set. Jordan Parrish was a good player. He was Derek’s age, but he had an air of youth about him. If tennis were a test of boundless energy, Parrish would have at least won a set. Lucky for Derek, it was about more than that. It relied on skill and dogged determination. That, Derek had in spades.

Still, he would have liked some of that vivacity as he took a dive to lob the ball back over the net, only for it to land out of bounds.

_Come on, Hale._ He picked himself up and returned back to the line. He was up three sets to two, but the last three seemed daunting.

“Come on, Hale,” Derek heard from the crowd. The cheers and jaunts were split pretty equally amongst Derek and Parrish, but this voice stuck out, it was familiar.

A burst of warmth erupted in Derek’s chest and he scanned the crowd, hopeful for the first time all match, instead of ruthlessly practical.

There he was, decked in loose track pants and a hoodie, at the top of the stairs. _Stiles_.

His voice alone invigorated Derek. With Stiles at his back, Derek could keep it together. Just a few more games to go, surely he had that left in him.

Parrish served and Derek parried and just like that, another game was under his belt. Two to go.

The last two games were brutal, Parrish forcing Derek to sprint back and forth all over the court. First they engaged in a battle of lobs and volleys over the net before Derek managed a lucky ricochet deep into the court. Parrish pulled out a truly miraculous shot, contorting his long body in a way Derek didn’t think possible, but Derek wasn’t going to lose now, not with Stiles watching, not when the win was so close he could taste it.

He wondered what victory sex with Stiles would be like.

Because then, against all odds (and Derek knew the odds, Cora kept betting on him. He’d tried to get her to stop, but she kept calling him a sure thing. And yeah, maybe part of his drive to win came from shutting her up.) Derek had won. The crowd cheered politely, many of them sad to see Australian sweetheart Jordan Parrish going out in only the second round, but they were all just white noise to Derek. All he could see, all he could hear, was Stiles’ cheers and his stupid happy dance that was just for Derek.

Hopefully, when the pictures of Derek smiling on court showed up, no one linked his stupid, sappy grin to Stiles goddamn Stilinski.

“Hey, great match, man. Keep this up and you’ll be drowning in endorsement deals,” Scott said as he greeted Derek in the locker room.

“Yes, the sweet call of endorsements. That’s what’s truly kept me in the sport all these years.”

“You mock, man, but you should see some of the deals Jackson Whittemore’s getting offered.”

“Thanks, really, but I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Scott said, ever affable. “Now hurry up, I’ve got some journalists actually promising to listen when you talk today. Presser in ten. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Press conferences, Derek decided, were his personal hell.

None of the journalists actually cared about him. He wasn’t a story, and he knew that. But he stayed polite, if aloof. Some of them even looked interested and took notes when he managed to successfully announce his pending retirement from the game.

“Derek, tell us, how do you feel about your seeding for the next round of the tournament?”

“Sorry, I was so focused on this match I haven’t even looked. Parrish is an immense talent, I honestly didn’t want to bank on advancing.”

Derek thought he caught a glint of a story in the reporter’s journalist in the moment before she spoke. “Well, you’ll be facing Vernon Boyd, your training partner. How do you think matching up against someone whose game you know so well will affect your game and the way you train?”

“Uh,” Derek managed, caught completely off guard. In the end, he managed to bullshit an answer about how great Boyd was (that part wasn’t bullshit) and how knowing your enemy intimately was sometimes the best way to slay him.

* * *

“So,” said Derek.

“Yup,” said Boyd.

Derek had lost sight of Stiles after his post-match press conference, but he figured it was for the best. They both had matches to focus on. Instead, he and Boyd had opted to go out for dinner. The walk to the restaurant through the drizzling London streets gave them the time Derek figured they needed to clear the air and come to terms that only one of them would be advancing past the next round of the tournament.

“Your elbow acting up?” Derek asked. “Dodgy shoulder?”

“Fuck off, mate,” Boyd said, but his stoic façade had cracked and he grinned stupidly at Derek.

Yeah, they’d be fine.

“Still want to train together?” Derek asked, unsure of whether his game would be more or less hindered by trying to break in a new training partner in the little time they had before the next match.

“Of course. We can’t change any of our routines now. No switching superstitions. We have to keep everything exactly the same.”

“That’s a good point,” said Derek. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Everything, mate. I’m not washing my lucky socks until I finish this tournament. Unless I win, and then they’re never getting washed.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“See that? Right there, that’s why I’m going to beat you. Doesn’t matter how disgusting it is. It’s superstition.”

Which left Derek thinking about his last matches. He’d won, sure, but only after seeing Stiles.

They didn’t even have to fuck, Derek thought, already pulling out his cell phone. He just needed to see Stiles, let himself be charmed by the other man’s quick smiles and easy demeanor. Anything else that happened would just be a bonus.

Derek waved Boyd off as they approached their hotel, continuing down the block to give himself room to move, to think, as he waited for Stiles’ voice on the other end of the phone. One day, Derek would sit down and examine what, exactly, it was about Stiles that made him feel like he was about to fly out of his skin, but that could wait until later.

“Stiles, listen, I’ve been thinking we can’t break tradition now,” Derek launched into speech as soon as the call went through. He couldn’t bear to lose steam, he’d never get the words out. “How about we meet up before our next match? Dinner got ruined the other night, so pick something out and I’ll grab it. You can provide dessert, yeah? Maybe something that’ll keep just in case we get waylaid again.”

Derek paused, finally giving Stiles a chance to respond, breathlessly hoping for Stiles’ joyous laugh to burst forth at Derek’s awful attempt at a joke with _waylaid._

“I’m not sure who this is,” a voice on the other phone stated, slightly deeper than Derek was expecting, “But I think it’d be a good idea to cancel those plans. Stiles can’t be distracted right now. Have a good night.  

The line went dead, and Derek began to panic. Was Stiles fucking around with anyone he could find before his next match? Just being young and having fun on tour? Derek didn’t want to believe it, Stiles had shown up and cheered for him at his match. But Stiles had also insisted they stay casual, that no one know about them. Stiles had disappeared after that match, not sticking around to talk to Derek.

One of these days, Derek thought, he would stop getting himself into these situations, where he put more on the line than he’d even realized.

But of course it was too late to learn that lesson this time around. His heart already hurt, and dread pooled in his stomach, as he trudged back to the hotel on wooden legs.


	6. Chapter 6

“Allison,” Derek greeted, grateful to have found a friendly face at long last. He’d been at the courts for a few hours, but until he saw French champion Allison Argent sitting in the player’s lounge, he’d felt adrift.

He’d decided the night before, as soon as he hung up with the stranger who answered Stiles’ phone, that he wasn’t going to rush to conclusions. He’d had his freak out but eventually rationality had set in. Sure, it had taken working himself to the brink of an anxiety attack and taking an extended bath before that calm had set in, but he’d made it there in the end. What he needed to do was talk to Stiles.

“Derek, hi. Sit down,” Allison smiled beatifically up at him.

“Who is it that’s training you now? Not your aunt or grandfather, right?” Derek said, buying himself time. He liked Allison, really he did. She was bright and kind, the best their sport had to offer. But he wasn’t setting himself up to get ambushed, not if he could help it.

Allison smiled knowingly at him, gaze darting to the way Derek’s hand lingered, clenched, on the back of an empty chair. “No, no. Aunt Kate is still banned from training and, well, let’s not discuss my grandfather. My dad’s been training me.”

Derek sighed, relief flooding through him. “Good, good, that’s good,” he said, finally pulling out the chair and joining her.

“I certainly can’t complain; my game’s never been better. Besides, I wouldn’t subject you to anyone in my family if I could help it.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite Argent.”

“Yeah, that’s why. Now, catch me up. How have you been? What have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Training, winning. Planning my next career move. How about you.”

“Oh, you know. Training, winning. Planning my next Grand Slam championship. Now, why don’t you tell me why you were really so happy to see me?”

“Aw, Allison. Don’t be like that. I’m always happy to see you.”

She arched an eyebrow and he caved. She’d known him for over a decade, when they were both young and fresh on the circuit, both of them obediently following her aunt’s footsteps. Of course she could get him to break with no more than a twitch.

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d seen Stiles Stilinski around today?”

Her smile stayed on her face, but her bright eyes narrowed marginally, assessing him. Derek fought the urge to shrink back in his chair.

“Not recently. You should ask Jackson Whittemore.”

“Why’s that?” There it was, her eyebrow quirk. And that, that had Derek shrinking back. “Oh. Ohhhhhh.”

“Yes, oh. But I never said a word.”

“Of course not. Thanks, Ally,” Derek said, leaning forward to brush a kiss against her cheek before leaving.

“No one calls me that anymore,” she protested.

“That’s what you want to be true,” Derek said, darting away before she could land a blow, and stumbling into someone. He looked up and found that he vaguely recognized the man he’d run into. Not only did he have familiar eyes but he—“You’re Stiles’ dad,” Derek said, but it came out accusatory.

_Abort, abort_ , he thought, desperate to flee. Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Allison’s wide smile, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“You’re the Hale kid,” Mr. Stilinski said, rocking back on his heels, those familiar eyes pinning Derek in place.

“Yes, sir.”

“Uh huh,” Mr. Stilinski said and what kind of response was that? What could Derek possibly say to that? After an interminable moment, the man nodded, as if he’d decided something. “I meant what I said last night. Stiles can’t be distracted from the tournament right now. So whatever fun you two were having together, that ends. Now.”

Derek was frozen. For a second, all he could notice was the way the man’s hand rested on his belt, as if he was used to having a weapon there. His tone was like steel, and his deep voice – that Derek actually recognized. Then what the man said actually clicked into place and the puzzle pieces matched up.

Mr. Stilinski was the voice from Stiles’ phone. Derek hadn’t been warned off by one of Stiles’ many conquests but by the other man’s _father_. Derek wasn’t sure if he was relieved or mortified.

Relief won out.

“I understand, Mr. Stilinski.”

“So you’ll stop seeing my boy?” Oh, this man was thorough. Derek was planning on working that loophole for all it was worth.

Instead, he said, “If that’s what Stiles wants.” Then, before he could dig himself any deeper, “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Stilinski. I hope you enjoy your time here in England.”

Derek politely stepped away, definitely not planning on sprinting away from the intimidating elder Stilinski, just in time to see Stiles on the patio, waving frantically as he tried to catch Derek’s attention. Suddenly, the tension dropped from Derek’s shoulders and he felt like he could breathe again as he stepped out into the open air and to Stiles’ side.

* * *

They ended up going for dinner at some sushi bar Stiles had passed and wanted to try.

“I’m going to try sushi from every country I travel to,” Stiles vowed, shoving another California roll into his mouth.

“What is that possibly going to accomplish?” Derek wondered.

“Uh, I get to eat a metric fuckton of sushi? Priorities, Derek. I have them.”

“Uh huh,” Derek said, hoping the spring roll he ate managed to mask the grin he knew was forming.

“So,” Stiles said once he was finally full. “I have a confession to make.”

_Shit, shit, shit._ This was it, this is the moment that Stiles says ‘it’s been fun, but we’re done. I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.’

“What’s up?”

“When you walked into my hotel room the other night? I didn’t just know who you were because of your match against Greenberg.”

“Okay?” Derek said, not sure where Stiles was going with this.

“Dude,” Stiles started, blowing out a gusty breath. Whatever he was about to say, he was nervous about. “I saw you when you carried the hit ball girl off the court during your match with Deucalion. I thought you were such an asshole.”

“I’m sorry?” Derek didn’t quite see how helping an injured child made him an asshole, but pretty much everything about Stiles still confounded him.

“To lose like that when you were playing so well. Don’t fuck it up this time around. I could see the way your edges were getting frayed with Parrish the other day. Keep it together.”

“I only held it together because you were watching,” Derek blurted and then immediately wanted to cover his mouth. Jesus Christ, what was happening to him? That was not supposed to be said, ever. That wasn’t supposed to cross his mind. God, Derek had no chill. Maybe it was _his_ serve that was getting mushy over a boy. Stiles sure seemed cool as a cucumber.

Well, maybe not that cool, if the way his mouth curved up in a gentle, pleased smile was any indication.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles suggested. At that moment, Derek would have followed him anywhere.

They ended up in St. James’s Park, casually meandering along the path as they chatted. It had been so long since Derek had been able to just _be_. Stiles seemed to take him for what he was; never demanding anything Derek wasn’t willing to deliver. He didn’t push Derek for intimate details of his life, or stories about his career. He didn’t push Derek for information about why he was retiring or what it was like to feel like you’re too old for the one thing you love enough to get out of bed every day.

Instead, they talked about other hobbies they had as children. It was how he learned that Stiles could pick pretty much any lock he encountered and that Stiles’ father used to be a sheriff before he retired and began travelling with Stiles on the international circuit. It was when Derek felt safe enough to disclose that he used to try and catch the rabbits in his mother’s garden because he wanted one as a pet – he had loved Beatrix Potter books and wanted his very own Peter Rabbit.

It was when they’d found the way to the Victoria Memorial fountain, Stiles blithely balancing on the lip, a hand warm on Derek’s shoulder to make sure he didn’t lose balance and tip into the coin-riddled water, that they finally broached the topic of tennis.

“Oh, hey,” Stiles said, squeezing Derek’s shoulder lightly to get his attention. As if he’d ever lost it. “A shooting star. Come on, we have to make a wish.”

Stiles turned his face to the sky, a smile playing at his lips as he closed his eyes. He looked beautiful.

“So, what did you wish?” Stiles asked after a moment.

“For the strength to beat Boyd in the next round.”

Stiles winced sympathetically. “You’re playing a friend? That’s tough, but you should know how to beat him. You have to kill him, man. Without thinking twice.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Derek confessed. Then, trying to salvage the mood, asked, “So what did you wish for?”

“Ha!” Stiles crowed, needlessly setting his other hand on Derek’s opposite shoulder, bracing himself as he made the small hop down to the ground. Derek relished the small moment of contact, yearned for Stiles to trail a hand down Derek’s arm and twine their fingers together. “You’re not supposed to tell your wish. If you do it won’t come true.”

But the next day, Derek’s wish _did_ come true. When he and Boyd faced off across the net, in front of the hundreds of people that filled the stadium and who knows how many on the other sides of their televisions, Derek felt serene. His movements were fluid, his strikes true, and he absolutely decimated Boyd.

Derek told himself to ignore the beautiful boy in the stands that kept cheering his name. When that didn’t work, his head full of thoughts that they hadn’t even slept together the night before and Derek was this gone on him, he leaned into the exhilaration. He used the giddy energy that Stiles instilled in him to make his footsteps that much lighter, his reactions that much quicker.

When Derek and Boyd walked out of the stadium after the match and into the drizzling afternoon, Boyd finally broke.

“You trounced me,” Boyd stated plainly. “Where did that come from?”

Derek ducked his head, not sure what to say, exactly. He couldn’t blame Stiles. First because no one was supposed to know about them, but also because Stiles wasn’t the one on the court that day. That was all Derek.

“Let me guess,” Boyd said. “The twink in the taxi?”

Derek’s head jerked up in surprise, then followed Boyd’s pointed gaze. Sure enough, Derek could see Stiles’ long, entrancing fingers wave at him from the back of a black cab.

“I’m just gonna,” Derek said, starting off toward the car.

“Yeah, you do that,” Boyd said. “I’m just going to go call up Erica. See if she’s in a sympathetic mood.”

“Alright man. Practice tomorrow?” Derek asked.

“Of course. If I’m going to have lost Wimbledon, I better make sure I lost it to the best.”

“Cheers,” Derek said, and finally gave into the urge to jog off through the rain to join Stiles.


	7. Chapter 7

Derek was laid out prone on his hotel room bed trying not to groan in pain as his trainer worked his shoulder in a brutal, but necessary, deep tissue massage. Alan Deaton had been Derek’s trainer for practically Derek’s whole career, so he didn’t really notice Derek’s whispered promises for retribution anymore. They both knew that whatever pain Derek was currently feeling would be well worth the results, no matter how much he snapped and growled.

Besides, with Stiles off at some swanky press op, Derek didn’t have anything better to do. The way he figured it, better deal with this inconvenience now than when it could interrupt one of the precious few hours he has left with Stiles before the tournament ended and Stiles flew back across the Atlantic and they never saw each other again.

Thankfully, he was interrupted from those bleak thoughts by a pounding at his hotel room door. Derek didn’t even have a chance to beckon the guest in before his door was opening.

“What the fuck?” Derek groaned, none to pleased to see Scott enter.

Scott ignored Derek’s tone and smiled dopily at him. “Front desk gave me a key.”

“What the fuck?” Derek repeated. “They should all be fired.” Then, remembering that the front desk’s fuck-ups were how he finally met Stiles in the flesh—all of that glorious, dripping flesh—he bit his tongue.

“It’s in your contract,” Scott said, waving off Derek’s concern.

Derek sat up, nodding to Deaton in thanks and dismissal.

“Well,” Derek said to Scott as soon as Deaton had packed and left. “You can understand my surprise. You’ve never really made it a point to meet up with me outside of matches.”

“Derek, my man, I’m sorry about that. But you just weren’t marketable enough. You only see me when I can make you money and I hate to say it, but you were 119th in the world. No brand wants a loser endorsing them. But it’s cool! You’re winning now, I can do my job, it’ll be great.”

“Gee, thanks Scott,” Derek said, just barely resisting the urge to bury his head in a pillow and ignore Scott’s existence.

“Anytime,” Scott said.

Derek wanted to be annoyed at Scott, wanted to kick him out of the room and go to sleep. But doing what Scott told him to was part of his job, so he sucked it up and pulled on his professional persona.

“So, what’s up?”

“Suit up, Derek. Slazenger’s hosting a cocktail party tonight and everyone wants to meet you.”

“Everybody already knows me. I’ve been pro for a decade.”

“Yeah, but now you’re winning, a true underdog story! Reporters and fans eat that shit up. So now everyone wants to meet you all over again. This is a huge press opportunity for you. Go out, get some exposure, let them take some pictures of you looking dashing. I’ll turn that into endorsements. You can’t really screw this one up. I’ll have a car waiting for you downstairs at 7pm.”

“If I’m going,” Derek started.

“You’re going,” Scott said, voice brooking no room for argument.

“Then I’m taking my own car.”

“Good enough for me. London Eye. Be there by eight. You only have to mingle, do a lap, you can be out by nine if you play your cards right.”

“Yeah, sure. You got it.”

“Alright, cool. I’ll meet you at the venue. Well, that’s all I had for you, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks, Scott.”

“No problem,” Scott said, letting himself out of the room. Derek set an alarm on his phone and gave in to the urge to bury himself in his pillows and nap until he had to get ready.

* * *

“Good choice with the black suit,” Scott complimented as Derek climbed out of his small coupe.

“Yeah, thanks,” Derek said, looking around. The place was packed with athletes and press and Derek was already beginning to feel claustrophobic. It was why he’d opted to drive himself – not just the quick escape whenever he wanted it, but the feeling of wind in his hair always managed to soothe him.

“But maybe next time shave the beard, grizzly man?”

“Don’t push it,” Derek said.

“Right, okay. I’ll be with you as we enter, picking out a few brief interviews, and then you’ll be free to do as you please. Just remember, you’re committed to at least an hour.”

“I think I can manage it, Scott.”

“Alright, then. Let’s go.”

The gauntlet of reporters and photographers that harassed Derek on his way into the venue wasn’t actually that bad. Sure, he had to endure the same inane questions over and over, but it wasn’t hard to vary his wording a little, smile in what he hoped was a charming manner, and express gratitude for being able to play professional tennis for as long as he had.

Derek had never really gained fame from his tennis playing. Hell, he’d never even garnered international attention. He was rarely recognized in public. But he preferred it that way, able to hermit away and go unnoticed. He’d never been wealthy from his sport, but he’d had enough to live off of, to buy a small flat for himself to hide away from the world and a flashy little car that may have looked dumb, but made him happy. That’s all he’d ever really wanted, and his career had afforded him that.

So none of the gratitude he expressed was fake, especially not the sigh of relief when Scott’s hand fell on his shoulder, finally steering him away from the press and into the venue. Derek rolled his shoulders and let his public persona grin slide from his face into a more neutral expression. One that Cora had always told him look like he was either constipated or about to rip someone limb from limb. Such a charming girl, his sister.

“This way, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Scott said, maneuvering him toward the bar. Derek desperately wanted a drink, but he couldn’t in the middle of the tournament, so he settled for a seltzer. He wistfully imagined the barkeep had added a dash of scotch to it.

Then they were off, Scott obviously giddy as he geared up for the big introduction. His smile looked almost manic as he raised his voice and called, “Stiles, dude. Come here!”

Derek’s head jerked up, eyes hungrily searching for Stiles in the crowd. Then he found him, and his jaw dropped. Stiles was turned away from them, trying to politely disengage from the conversation he’d been embroiled in and Derek thanked the stars for that, he needed a moment.

Derek knew he needed to keep it together, needed to have some sort of propriety between he and Stiles – there were reporters everywhere and, technically, Derek wasn’t out. Stiles had asked for privacy with _whatever_ it was that was going on between them. Jesus this was a nightmare, especially the way Stiles wore his suit.

His blood red suit.

There was no way in hell Derek was surviving the night.

Stiles still hadn’t fully disengaged from his conversation so Derek took the time to subtly (he hoped) appreciate the way that Stiles’ tailor had made his suit pants absolutely _cling_ to his ass. Derek had thought the first night they’d slept together he had worshipped Stiles’ ass, but seeing it now, in those insane red pants, Derek wanted another chance. He wanted to build that ass a shrine and pray to it every day for the rest of his life.

Stiles turned abruptly and Derek dragged his gaze up Stiles’ torso only to find that Stiles goddamn Stilinski was wearing a _motherfucking vest_.

Derek resolutely ignored the sudden twitch in his cock and the way he wanted to undo the buttons of that vest _with his teeth_.

Stiles Stilinski was a menace.

Derek’s eyes finally managed to track the rest of the way up Stiles’ body—catching briefly at the way the neck of his shirt left a gap that only served to elongate his neck (because _of course_ Stiles wasn’t wearing a tie), the gentle slope of his broad shoulders—only to find the other man’s eyes sparkling with delight.

Stiles goddamn motherfucking Stilinski licked his lips and donned a crooked smile as Scott took pains to formally introduce them.

Derek felt as though he were about to fly apart at the seams, burst into a billion little stars; he could create his own universe with the surge of desire that flowed through him.

Instead, he licked his own lips and said a polite, “Hello.”

“Nice to meet you, Derek Hale,” Stiles said, and _oh_. That was how they were going to play it. “I like your glasses.”

“I like your suit,” Derek parried. “Especially the vest.”

Between them, Scott seemed to be vibrating with energy, glad his introductions were going smoothly.

If only he knew.

“I knew you two would hit it off. Awesome, I’m just going to go over there,” he said, flapping a hand off behind him, nearly knocking an array of champagne flutes off a wandering waiter’s tray. “While you two keep talking. Who knows, maybe things will work out and you two will have a bunch of adorable tennis superstars that you train together. I’ll be their agent, it’ll be awesome.”

Both men glared at Scott who plaintively raised his hands in supplication. “Jeez, or not. Chill out. Remember Derek, one hour,” Scott said, ducking into the crowd and disappearing from sight.

“What’s with the one hour?” Stiles asked, turning so that they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out across the room.

“Scott’s mandate on how long I have to stay and be looked at like a zoo animal.”

“Well, you’ve got me now. Let me buy you a drink?”

“It’s an open bar.”

“Is that a no?”

“Of course it’s not a no,” Derek said. “But I’m sick of the view in here. Is there anywhere else we could go?”

“Derek, my friend, I am glad you asked. I happen to know the perfect spot.”

When Stiles said that, eyes lit with what Derek could only assume was mischief, Derek envisioned them stealing away to some dark corner and, at the very least, making out. Instead, they somehow ended up in one of the capsules of the London Eye, where the rest of the party extended.

The capsule they were in slowly ascended and Stiles’ hand darted down to grab one of Derek’s and tow him over to the glass walls of the pod so that they could look over the Thames and the rest of London. Instead of looking outside, however, Derek’s gaze was drawn to Stiles. The man was beautiful as he stood there, mouth slightly parted, as he raked his eyes over the slowly shrinking city, trying to take in as much of it as possible.

Derek couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so _enamored_ with someone. He felt content watching Stiles excitement, happy just with the way their hands gently brushed against one another at their sides. Stiles had let go of Derek’s hand as soon as they’d made their way through the crowd, but Derek didn’t blame him. His company was enough.

After a moment, Derek leaned in a bit toward Stiles, quietly pointing out different landmarks he thought Stiles might find interesting – the Millennium Bridge (“I recognize that from Harry Potter!”), the Globe Theater (“Fuck Romeo & Juliet, man. They were infatuated idiots, not soul mates.”), St. Paul’s Cathedral (“Did you know that there was a church there a _thousand years_ before the current St. Paul’s was built?” Then, seeing Derek’s surprise, “What, expect another pop culture fact? I have untapped depths, Hale. Play your cards right and you’ll get to tap them.”).

They were so involved with one another that they didn’t notice anyone had approached them until a condescending scoff burst their bubble. “Really, Stilinski? Slumming it with has-beens?”

“Jackson,” Stiles said, turning around to face the other man, but sticking close to Derek’s side. “Have you met Derek Hale?”

“Yeah, we met once. First round of San Jose, which I won.” Suddenly, Jackson seemed to freeze, as if the gears inside of him froze. Then he burst out with, “Wait, are you screwing him? Come on Stilinski, even you can do better than him. What are you ranked, like, 120th?”

“Doesn’t really matter what I’m ranked if I’m winning, does it?” Derek said, forcefully shoving down every insult he wanted to hurl at Jackson. He would keep his temper, stick out the end of the rotation on the London Eye, and escape into the night. He could go back to the hotel and forget this night had ever happened, he didn’t know what he’d been thinking, when he’d actually began to expect the night would turn out well.

“Seriously Stilinski, I know I got bored with you, but you have other options besides this loser.”

“That reminds me,” Stiles said, voice hard and cold in a way that Derek never wanted to hear again. “How is Lydia? Has she dumped you for good yet, or does she still accept your apologies when you go crawling back to her, saying you were just going through a phase?”

“Fuck off. You don’t know anything.”

“I know a lot more than you want to admit, so I think you should leave now. Send Lydia my love,” Stiles said, before turning to give Jackson his back.

“You know, I came over here out of professional courtesy, but I don’t know why I bothered. I can’t even believe you made it this far in the tournament. You’re not even a good tennis player. The only real talent you have is with your mouth.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek could see Stiles tense, hunching in on himself. Not able to let a comment like that stand, Derek pulled back and punched Jackson in the face before he’d even made the conscious decision to.

“Shit,” Derek said, clutching his hand.

“Shit,” Stiles said, having spun around when he saw the blurred motion of Derek’s arm. “That was _awesome_.”

“It hurts like a bitch,” Derek grumbled.

“I’ll take care of it for you,” Stiles promised. “As soon as we make it out of here. Come on!”

And for the second time that night, Derek found his hand encased by Stiles’ warm hand as he was tugged over Jackson’s crumpled form and into the fresh air, their capsule barely having made it back to ground level.

“You know,” Stiles said once they’d managed to break away from the crowds and hop into Derek’s car. “I’ve never had anyone fight for my honor before. I kind of like it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suit References:  
> [Derek](http://bit.ly/2bb6be0)  
> [Stiles](http://bit.ly/2bzgkp7)


	8. Chapter 8

Derek’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as they left the glimmering lights of London behind was only partially due to the fact that he probably just ruined his career by punching out another player at a sponsored event. A little bit was also to blame on the way that he was viscerally aware that he was about to spend an hour and a half in the car next to Stiles; over an hour listening to him, looking at him, but not touching him.

But mostly it was because Stiles, it turned out, more than liked the way that Derek punched out Jackass Whittemore if the constant stream of, “Jesus, that was amazing. Seriously, Derek, it was sexy as fuck,” was anything to go by. Also, the way that Stiles’ blithely undid his seatbelt and bent over Derek’s lap to give him road head once they’d cleared the city limits kind of tipped him off.

By all maths, Stiles was going to be the death of Derek Hale.

Thankfully, they managed to arrive in Brighton without Derek having crashed the car. There were a few moments, however, where the white light he thought was going to engulf him were oncoming headlights instead of his own impending orgasm.

“Come on,” Derek said, struggling to get his key in the lock. He’d led Stiles up the narrow staircase to his flat, the top one in the ocean-front building, but couldn’t go a moment longer without kissing him. Derek had caged Stiles in against the wall, desperate to get his mouth on him, wanting to suck and bite and scrape.

Stiles had blown him and then _jerked off in the passenger seat,_ all while not letting Derek touch him.

Seriously, death by Stiles Stilinski. Derek figured it would be worth it.

So he lost himself, then. His large hands pinned Stiles’ hips to the wall and he crowded in against him, ducking down to work at Stiles’ throat. Stiles had thrown his head back and how could he not understand what that did to Derek, the havoc it wreaked on his already tenuous control?

“Derek,” Stiles whined. He actually whined, his hips bucking up, seeking _something_. Winning a tournament had never made Derek feel as victorious as he did in that moment.

“Shit,” Derek panted, wanting nothing more than to just strip Stiles out of his suit right there on the landing in front of his apartment. But reality nosed in, and Derek put those plans on hold in favor of finally getting his key to unlock the door. As tempting as it was to get Stiles naked as soon as possible, the slight worry that one of his neighbors might come up to investigate the noises they were surely making ate at him. The small tug of anticipation that being discovered stirred in him was nothing compared to the way he relished having Stiles all to himself, being the only one who got to see Stiles thrashing and wild and _wanting._

“Hold that thought,” Derek said, pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips before moving back to finally get the key into the lock and push the door open.

Derek moved first, broaching the threshold and crossing into the apartment. Stiles wasn’t far behind, his long fingers looped into the back of Derek’s trousers as he followed.

Derek wasted no time, slamming the door and throwing the deadbolt, before ushering Stiles further inside. They moved toward the couch Derek had left in the middle of his living room, a mark of convenience rather than interior design.

“Derek,” Stiles said, but his tone had changed. Derek’s gaze snapped up, curious as to what had caused it.

Stiles simply inclined his head toward the couch.

“Cora!” Derek bellowed.

Cora scrambled to pull her skirt back rights as a redheaded girl sat back on her heels where she was crouched in front of the sofa. Derek watched, dazed, as the girl primly wiped at her lips before reapplying lipstick.

“Lydia?” Stiles asked, tone rife with shock.

“Hello, Stiles.” The redhead said, standing and crossing to Stiles’. She planted a dainty kiss on his cheek.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Derek asked, not really sure who to expect a response from at this point.

Lydia wandered away, but not before grabbing her cell phone from one of the couch cushions and lazily taking pictures. It seemed as if she had no real regard for what she captured, as she took pictures of Cora, still lazily sprawled on the couch; Derek, mouth agape in the foyer; Stiles smiling slightly, arms crossed as he watched the drama play out before him.

“Calm down, bro,” Cora said, finally climbing to her feet.

“Maybe I’ll calm down when you tell me why you were in my house.”

“You weren’t using it,” Cora scoffed.

“Not a very good argument, Cora.”

“Well you weren’t!”

Lydia took that moment to spin gracefully, snapping a picture of Stiles and Derek together, clothes in slight disarray.

“Stop that!” Derek shouted.

“Please, do you know how much money pictures of the two of you together will be worth?”

“Lyds, come on,” Stiles entreated. “Derek just punched Jackson. Think of that. The joy those pictures will bring should be worth way more than whatever pittance you’ll get of the two of us together.”

“Wait, _she’s_ the Lydia you mentioned before?” Derek asked, thoroughly confused.

“We’ll just be going now,” Cora said, grabbing her shoes in one hand and Lydia’s hand in the other. “Good luck with the tournament, Der.”

“We’re not done talking about this, Cora!”

“Sure we are,” Cora said, slinking past him. Lydia followed complacently, but kept snapping pictures of Stiles and Derek together. “Bye Der! Nice to meet you, Stiles!”

The door slammed shut and Derek wanted to throw something. Stiles, on the other hand, began to laugh.

“This isn’t funny,” Derek growled.

“Sure it is,” Stiles managed between gasps.

“You were the one who wanted to stay lowkey! How are pictures of us together going to do you any good?”

“Please,” Stiles scoffed. “I’ve known Lydia for years. She’s harmless. Well, no, she’s really not. But she would never intentionally hurt me, so she won’t leak those pictures. Don’t worry about it, man.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about it! My sister broke into my flat, the only place I consider sacred, and she brought a fling with her. I feel dirty.”

“Dirty, huh? Why don’t you let me be in charge of making you feel dirty and you just forget your sister was ever here?”

“How can I possibly just forget that—“ Derek began, but Stiles cut him off, moving swiftly to kiss the fight right out of Derek.

“Come on,” Stiles said, tugging Derek towards the bedroom. “Give me a tour of your apartment. I wanna see where the magic happens.”

Derek didn’t bother to tell Stiles that he’d never brought anyone to his flat like this before. He didn’t want to know how, exactly, Stiles would react to being told that he’d be getting the honor of helping Derek christen this place. Sure, Derek had a sneaking suspicion that Stiles would flash him a shit-eating grin before insisting they fuck in every room of the flat, but odds were just as good that it would spook him. And Derek really, really didn’t want to spook him.

Instead Derek followed Stiles into the bedroom, and simply grinned when Stiles pushed him onto the mattress. Happy, once again, to let Stiles take charge for a while.

* * *

Derek woke to weak morning light streaming in through his curtains and an empty bed. He didn’t worry too much, though; the bed was still warm from Stiles’ body heat and Stiles didn’t know his way around Brighton.

Sure enough, when Derek finally stretched and rolled out of bed, he found Stiles sitting on the edge of the tub, cell phone to his ear. He held up a finger toward Derek, asking for a minute to finish the call.

Derek leaned against the doorjamb, happy to have the freedom to rove his eyes over Stiles, who looked loose and sleepy. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants that must have been Derek’s.

“I’ll be back tonight, Dad. Tomorrow at the latest,” Stiles said. He quickly pulled the phone away from his face and covered the mouthpiece, before turning to Derek. “Sorry. He’s probably got another minute or two of shouting in him. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“You didn’t, don’t worry about it. Want breakfast? I’m pretty sure the place is stocked with at least the basics.”

“Actually, I kind of want to go for a run. You interested?”

“That sounds great,” Derek said. Playing in Wimbledon was amazing, but Derek missed the freedom that being home provided to just go outside whenever he wanted. During the tournament, he felt penned into his room, harangued by handlers, and sidelined by fans who tended to treat any athlete staying in the hotel like a sideshow. Being in Brighton, on his home turf, with no one knowing where he was? That was the dream. Having the chance to share everything he loved about the city with Stiles? Well, that was just icing on the cake.

Stiles tentatively put his phone back to his ear. “He’s winding down now,” he told Derek. “Why don’t you find us something to wear and I’ll be out in a minute?”

“Sure, take your time.” Derek left as Stiles uncovered the receiver and delved back into conversation with his father.

“I don’t care if you like it,” Stiles said as Derek shut the door behind himself.

“So,” Stiles said, bouncing on his feet on the narrow sidewalk outside Derek’s apartment building. “Where are we going?”

“I usually do ten miles, that work for you?”

“Bring it on, old man.”

Unwilling to rise to the bait, Derek took off. His stride was easy as he jogged into the park, doing the long, easy lap of the grounds.

“Back in that alley,” Derek said, waving his hand off to the right, “best burger you’ll ever have. Well, okay, that’s a lie. But it’s great drunk food. Problem is, you’re so pissed the first time you go there, it’s kind of hard to locate unless you’re drunk.”

Stiles laughed at that, and seemed pleased that Derek was sharing his town with them, so Derek kept it up. When they looped around the back of St. Peter’s Derek pointed down yet another alley. “Worst comedians I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Then they were pulling up on Derek’s second favorite part of the city. They ran through the arches next to the Brighton Dome and Derek slowed his pace a little to turn and look at Stiles without toppling over. Stiles’ expression was loose and easy, a slight smile played at his lips as he eyes drank in the Royal Pavilion.

“In the winter they set up a skating rink,” Derek said. “It’s where I learned to skate. I still go with Cora every year since her birthday’s in December.”

Derek led Stiles down Western Street a bit, glad for the early hour that kept most shoppers off the sidewalks. Eventually, they zigzagged down a few side streets, a looping path that, while indirect, was at least a little scenic. After a few turns, Stiles pulled up short.

“You good?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, I just… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t expect to look up and see something that could be a postcard.”

Derek paused, trying to see his hometown through Stiles’ eyes. Each side of the narrow road was lined with rowhouses and tiny shops, two or three stories tall, all huddled together and leaning on each other like old friends.

A few of the lampposts were strung with flower baskets, and at the end of the road was the ocean, crisp and blue.

“Just wait until we get down to the boardwalk,” Derek promised. “You’ll love it, come on.”

“Down there’s the old pier,” Derek said, pointing to a rotted wooden structure in the ocean. It didn’t look like anything in particular, just a husk of something that once was. “Burned down ages ago.”

“Okay, uh, underneath us is the first club I ever went to. My older sister Laura snuck me in and got me absolutely wasted.”

“Wait, under us? Like, under the road?”

“Yeah, there’s a few clubs down there. I like the one Laura took me to, used to go every once in a while, but I’m just never here, I’m always training. I never have time to go out, or there’s no one to go with.” Derek realized he was getting a bit off track and forcibly steered himself to lighter territory. “Anyway, yeah, it was pretty cool. Vaulted ceilings, decent music. Oh, and down there is where my dad taught me to play tennis. Come on.”

Derek jogged down the steps to beach level, suddenly anxious to return to his first courts. They were all overgrown now, fallen into years of disrepair, but he still loved them. He was glad they hadn’t been razed yet, and had the sudden, intense desire to rehabilitate them.

“Dude, why are your beaches just rocks? Where’s the sand?”

“Why are your beaches all sand? Where are your rocks?”

“Sand is normal for beaches. Don’t pretend this isn’t an affront to beaches everywhere.”

“Get over it,” Derek said. “It’s never warm enough to really go swimming or lay out, anyway.”

Derek opened the chain link fence and stepped onto the old court. The net had long since fallen apart and plants grew up through cracks in the pavement. A few bumper cars from one of the old attractions at the pier had somehow found their way to the court as well and pretended as if the court were a car park. It was perfect.

“There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” Derek said, feeling safe in this place to tell Stiles anything. He’d already shared so much of himself today, there was no way this would change the balance. “But this is my last tournament, no matter what happens.”

“Huh,” Stiles said. It wasn’t judgmental, or really that surprised. Just an affirmation that he’d heard. “Well then, you should make it last.”

“Yeah,” Derek laughed. As if it were that simple.

“You just have to—“

“Keep winning.”

“Right,” Stiles said. “So keep winning.”

“Just like that?”

“Of course not just like that,” Stiles scoffed, tossing an imaginary ball into the air before serving it to Derek.

“Ace!” Stiles crowed when Derek didn’t move. He wound up and did it again, but this time Derek moved, his movements slow, but he pretended to lob the ball back over the net. “Hale rushes the net, lobs the ball and, oh no, he’s too slow for Stilinski who puts it in the corner of the court, just out of Old Man Hale’s reach.”

“Stop making me sound like I’m on my deathbed, Stiles.”

“Stop acting like it then. So you’re retiring, so what? That doesn’t mean you stop trying. It’s not an excuse to give up.”

“I haven’t been playing like I gave up.”

“I know that. Just make sure to keep it that way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Brighton reference](http://bit.ly/2bXqL87)
> 
> I actually studied abroad in Brighton during college, so I was really excited to get to revisit it. For those curious, the club I mention is called Coalition.


	9. Chapter 9

When they finally arrived back to Derek’s flat, they crammed themselves into Derek’s miniscule shower, uncaring of the way someone’s elbow was always digging into the other person, no matter how they configured. Derek called in an order of takeaway while Stiles chose something on Netflix and they both let out a breath, eager to enjoy the reprieve from competition. They reveled in the ability to be completely themselves without having to put on their professional front – no smiling for the cameras or fans, no polite disinterest. Just the two of them lazily making out in front of the television.

It was as they sat together that Stiles found out that when Derek was amused he kind of huffed, but when he laughed his whole body shook and he hunched in on himself, as if he were trying to contain the feeling, to just hold onto the joy for a little bit longer. It’s when Derek learned that Stiles _sprawls_ over every space, not just his body, which he does—limbs flung over the entire couch, including Derek—but over the apartment, his shoes left by the door, wallet on the counter, jacket over the dining room chair and clothes littered around Derek’s floor.

It’s when Derek figured out that he would give _anything_ to see Stiles wear his clothes more often. Stiles looked warm, and cozy, and sated and Derek wanted to keep him that way for the ~~rest of his~~ as long as possible.

They’d been so effective at making their own little world within the confines of Derek’s hometown, they had forgotten that Cora and Lydia had ever been there at all. That illusion is shattered, however, when they turn off Netflix and find the news on.

“Derek,” Stiles called, and something in his tone made Derek look up from where he’d been puttering in the kitchen. “Isn’t that your apartment?”

“Why is the news showing my apartment?” Derek wondered before it clicked, like a bullet being chambered. “Cora.”

“No, Derek. I told you, Lydia wouldn’t do that to us.”

“I don’t think she did. Cora, on the other hand…” Derek trailed off, frantic to do something, anything to make this right. “Fuck!”

“Oh, shit,” Stiles said. “Fuck, that’s my dad.”

Derek bit the bullet and faced reality, looked up at the screen and saw Mr. Stilinski, amongst a swarm of photographers, approaching the front door of Derek’s apartment building.

“What do we do?” Derek asked.

“How the hell should I know?”

“You seem to know everything else!”

“This is not the time for flattery, Derek!”

“Pick your shit up, hurry.”

They sped around the cramped space, hopping back into more presentable clothing, and making sure there weren’t any condom wrappers lying around in plain sight. Derek had just managed to button his pants when the knocking started.

“Oh, hello Mr. Stilinski. 

“Where’s my son?”

“Hm? Oh, he’s gone. Already at the practice courts, I would imagine.”

Mr. Stilinski gave Derek an appraising gaze. “It’s Derek, right?” He asked, tone softer than Derek ever would have expected. “Look, Derek, I’ve got nothing against you personally. You seem like a nice enough guy. A little old for my son, maybe, but I’m not an idiot. I know that Stiles likes to have his fun and it keeps him relaxed. If you were just another easy, well, you know that would be one thing. But you’re not, are you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Derek said, words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “I was incredibly easy.”

Mr. Stilinski’s face looked pained, but he soldiered on. Derek figured that to have raised Stiles meant learning how to talk around awkward statements. “No, this time it’s different. He’s falling for you.”

“Oh,” Derek said, floor falling out from under him and sending him into a spiraling freefall. “I see.”

“Which is a total disaster,” Mr. Stilinski carried on as if he hadn’t single-handedly shifted the axis of Derek’s world. “His footwork is off, his head is a mess; he’s got to remember what it is he wants, what he’s been working toward all these years. What he’s always wanted, more than anything.”

Derek heard the unspoken, _What he’s wanted far longer than he’s known you, and what he’ll keep wanting once you’re gone._ Derek was ephemeral, he wasn’t meant to be a lasting figure in Stiles’ life. Once again, Derek had deluded himself into thinking that maybe he could be.

“I still want it,” Stiles asserted, stepping out from where he’d been hidden behind one of Derek’s many bookshelves. “I want to win Wimbledon. I’m sorry.”

Derek wasn’t entirely sure to whom Stiles was apologizing: his father for having disappointed him and lost sight of his goals, or Derek, for the way he picked up his wallet off the counter and followed his father out the door without saying another word.

After what felt like an eternity, Derek managed to pry his feet off the floor and give chase.

“Stiles!”

But Stiles kept walking, head ducked, out into the swarm of photographers. Mr. Stilinski stopped, giving Derek a quick once-over. He seemed truly apologetic when he said, “Let him go, son.”

How could he? How could Derek watch the brightest part of his life just walk away. Because it wasn’t as if Stiles had said, “It’s just until after the tournament.” He hadn’t said _anything_. This wasn’t Stiles hitting Pause, this was Stiles hitting Stop.

Derek wanted to hit Rewind, or Fast Forward. Whatever direction would put Stiles back by his side, that’s the direction he wanted to go in.

* * *

Being idle didn’t do Derek any good, so he did a cursory job of cleaning his flat, just long enough for most of the press to disappear. He called Boyd and left him a terse message, asking him to meet at the practice courts in a few hours.

Derek needed to hit something.

He had to put Stiles out of his mind—as difficult as that would be—and focus on his career. The following day he would face down British darling Danny Mahealani, and Derek knew it would be his biggest challenge yet.

Danny was a superstar; he was one of the most skilled players Derek had ever seen. Just as terrifying, perhaps, was that Danny was beloved. And rightly so, he was kind and compassionate. He’d started a charity. He was the first openly gay professional male tennis player. He had two Grand Slams under his belt. If Derek hadn’t gotten lucky and won a wildcard entry into Wimbledon, _he’d_ be cheering for Danny.

And now Danny Mahealani, wonderful human, was all that stood between Derek and the end of his career.

A large part of Derek wanted to throw in the towel. He wanted to raise his racket in recognition of Danny’s greatness, and then bow the fuck out of competition, like when knights in royal tournaments would bow out when they realized the masked opponent was really a prince.

_Fuck it_ , Derek thought. The fans deserved a show. And fuck Stiles, too, because Derek didn’t need Stiles’ company or support to win. He could do this all on his own.

Derek strode onto the courts with his head held high.

Danny walked onto the court with a smile on his face and a wave to the uproarious crowd.

No matter what Derek did to shake the feeling, he could tell he wouldn’t be playing his best that day. He didn’t know whether to attribute it to the way things ended with Stiles, the fact that no one was cheering for him, or the fact that Danny was honestly just one of the best players in the world.

_Hit the damn ball, Derek_.

It was a struggle to keep his feet moving, but he did. His shoulder ached from where he’d been forced to dive to keep the rally going, but he did. Sweat dripped down his face and into his eyes, his contacts stung, but he powered through.

For every move that Derek made, Danny was a fraction faster, his footwork cleaner. Danny’s serves were more powerful and had a wicked spin; his reaction times were insane.

Derek wasn’t going to win.

He hadn’t really believed that he would beat Danny Mahealani, but he _wanted_ to. Hope was a funny thing; a spark of hope was quickly an ember, before he’d realized it there was a fire roaring in his gut and he _wanted_ the win, however unlikely.

Derek kept playing, using that fire to turn his game around. It fueled him; if he was going to lose, he was going to give Danny the game of his life.

All Derek cared about when he’d entered the tournament was ending his career on a high note. To him, that didn’t mean winning the tournament, it meant playing his best against the other greatest players in the world. Those were the people he wanted to be surrounded by when he stepped off the court for the last time.

Derek’s best was still no match for Danny, however.

It wasn’t until the crowd went quiet while Derek was wiping sweat on his shirt that he noticed anything was amiss.

The last point had been vicious, Derek finally winning as he placed the ball in the back corner of the court, forcing Danny to sprint and slide for it. Even through all the effort, Danny had missed and the point was Derek’s.

Now, though, Danny is sat on the ground, clutching his ankle and wincing. He rolled his ankle slowly, as if testing it, before waving off any help from a trainer. He hobbled to his feet, shifted his weight, and returned to the line.

Derek’s gaze was sharp and assessing; he noticed the slight limp as Danny favored his right leg.

This was his opportunity. For as much better as Danny was, Derek had still managed to scrape a win in the second set. Sure, Danny was currently up, four games to Derek’s two, but that was doable.

Danny was injured, Derek knew it, and Derek could use that to win.

Could he, though? Could he obliterate Danny and take away England’s best chance at winning the tournament?

_You have to kill him, man. Without thinking twice._

Derek could hear Stiles’ words in his head and knew he was right. Stiles had been right about Boyd and he was right now.

This game wasn’t about anyone else but Derek and Danny. And Derek was going to win.

It was a long, arduous battle, but Derek somehow managed. If he shortened his serves and made Danny lunge off the line, his ankle wouldn’t hold up and Derek would win the point. When Danny was near the net, Derek lobbed the ball into the back court, forcing Danny to pivot quickly and it usually messed up his equilibrium too much to survive the point.

Somehow, by some miracle, Derek took down one of the top five players in the world.

When Danny approached to shake his hand, Derek couldn’t quite keep the, “Sorry,” inside.

“Nah, don’t be,” Danny said, smiling. “You deserved it. I’ll enjoy cheering for you, mate. Someone’s got to do England proud.”

“I’ll do my best,” Derek choked out, terrified at the prospect of what was to come.

* * *

To celebrate his win, and because apparently Derek was a masochist, he went to Stiles’ match later that afternoon.

He wore his favorite pullover sweater and his glasses, sat next to Scott, and hoped that he could just blend in.

For the most part, they watched the match in silence, enraptured by the way that Stiles seamlessly translated his excess energy that always had him fidgeting into something so sinuous on the court.

Normally when Stiles was in motion, he was a mess of long limbs and constant distraction. He tripped over his own feet and he spun around backwards as he walked to make sure his companion paid attention to his latest info dump. But on the court, Stiles prowled, completely in his element as he watched his opponent for weaknesses. Tennis gave Stiles focus.

“What do you think makes him so extraordinary?” Derek asked Scott during the set break.

“No embarrassment, no fear,” Scott said without hesitation. “He makes a decision and he goes for it, all pistons firing. It’s a turn-on for the rest of us, ‘cause most of the time, let’s face it, we’re all scared shitless.”

Scott spoke with the easy familiarity of true friendship. Scott _knew_ Stiles, it was clear he was more than just Stiles’ agent. Derek envied that kind of bond.

“Even you, Scott?”

“Are you kidding me? Like, right now I am very, _very_ afraid. If you don’t see Stiles again, it’s going to mess with your head and screw with your confidence. You’ll be a wreck on the court like you were today. On the other hand, I’m freaking out. I’m scared that if I tell you where he’s camped out, his father will fire my ass and he’ll put me in best friend jail for the foreseeable future.”

Derek couldn’t help it. “Best friend jail?”

“Yeah, man,” Scott nodded seriously. “Haven’t you ever been there? Your friend betrays you or vice versa and then you have to deal with stony silence, and judgment, and the fact that you know you’re disappointing them until you can’t take it anymore and apologize? It’s awful. And it’s a thousand times worse with Stiles because he just feels things so intensely, you know? He can really hold a grudge. But it’s worth it when he lets you in.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “I’m getting that.”

They lapse into silence as Stiles sprints around the court, making the game look not only simplistic, but _fun_.

At least until the hit that would have ended the game is called out and he just _goes off_.

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles shouted, angrily approaching the umpire’s chair.

“It was out,” the umpire stated calmly.

“Bullshit it was out! We all saw the chalk fly up. My _grandmother_ saw the chalk fly up and she’s dead. The ball was _in_.”

“Out,” the umpire repeated. “Do not make me penalize you.”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” Stiles said, spinning back to his line, but not before making a jerk-off motion toward the judge.

“32 Kensington Place, first floor apartment,” Scott told Derek, even as his eyes worriedly tracked Stiles. “There, I made a decision.”


	10. Chapter 10

It was an awful idea.

Derek knew that, but it didn’t keep him from standing in some alley in the middle of the night, staring forlornly up at Stiles’ window as if he were Romeo Montague.

_Fuck Romeo & Juliet, man. They were infatuated idiots, not soul mates._

Yeah, this was a terrible idea. Derek was acutely aware that he was an infatuated idiot; an idiot whose left shoe was soaked through from the puddle of (what he hoped was) water he was stood in.

He should just go back to his hotel. Creep back down the alley, get into his car, and leave.

Christ, he hoped no one looked out their window and saw him lurking about like the creeper he currently was.

A deep growling noise had Derek peering down the dark alley and, despite knowing better, he reminded himself that there was no such thing as monsters. Whatever was out there, he could handle.

The growling came closer, stepping into a pool of light and Derek sighed; it was just a dog. The dog growled again, its lip turned up in menace, and that was it, Derek was done.

But his options were leave the alley and hope the dog didn’t follow him, or climb.

It was quickly becoming apparent that Derek would do _anything_ for Stiles, no matter how ill-advised. Punch Jackson Whittemore? Yup. Run away to Brighton? Sure. Sneak out to his clandestine hotel room and climb his trellis? Apparently.

“Shut up,” Derek grumbled to the dog, which kept its steely gaze on Derek, even as he reached for the trellis and began his ascent.

His mind wandered as he climbed, anxiety swirling as he pondered how much money a picture of Wimbledon’s Breakout Star Derek Hale climbing up the side of a building in a dingy alley would go for. 

Finally, after an interminable climb, Derek reached Stiles’ room. He tapped on the window, fervently hoping that Stiles would wake.

Stiles would wake up, sleepy and loose. He’d see Derek and smile, open the window, and beckon him in. They would crash together and Derek would burn, burn, burn, finally feeling alive again.

Instead, he saw the form on the bed in the night-dark room turn over, revealing it to be Stiles’ father.

“Shit, fuck,” Derek cursed, desperately scrambling to keep his grip on the windowsill despite the shock. It’s why he missed the neighboring window sliding open until Stile’s voice broke through the still night air.

“Derek?”

Derek swung his gaze around and then his grip _did_ slip, jolting him for a second, sending his heart racing in his chest before he got a grip.

This was not the way he envisioned his night going.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Stiles asked when it was apparent Derek wasn’t going to say anything.

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” Derek said, barely managing to avoid hanging his head like a scolded pup.

“Jesus, get in here,” Stiles said, shoving his window the rest of the way open and beckoning Derek inside. He had the grace to wait for Derek to finish climbing inside—Derek, who closed the window behind him, because he was a courteous intruder—before he began to berate him. “How could you just show up like this? I told you I needed space. Being with you is going to fuck up my game. That’s my _career_ , Derek. God, I had deluded myself into thinking you cared about me.”

“I do,” Derek said, his voice breaking, mirroring the way his heart was shattering inside his chest.

“Then why did you show up like this? Obviously you don’t respect me enough to do what I ask.”

“I do,” Derek repeated, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing he did around Stiles seemed like enough. “I’m sorry. I just—“

“You just what?” Stiles goaded him.

Derek straightened his back, raised his chin to look Stiles in the eye when he said, “I just didn’t understand that you only wanted space for a few days. You just _left_ , Stiles. You didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to think, but I couldn’t let that be the way you walked out of my life.”

“You thought I was ending things?” Stiles sounded horrified at the prospect and Derek wanted to find that reassuring but he was painfully aware that either way, he shouldn’t have fucking stalked Stiles.

“Yeah, but that’s no excuse. Fuck. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry, I’ll leave.”

Derek turned for the window.

“Derek, stop. You’re not climbing out the window.”

“Right,” Derek said. Then, “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

His heart ached; his eyes burned. It was physically painful to ignore the way his body wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and let his frame be wracked by sobs.

Derek wasn’t dumb; he realized he’d only known Stiles for a week. They were barely more than strangers with good chemistry, but knowing that didn’t stop Derek from feeling as if his world were ending. Being self-aware didn’t prevent the pain; in a way it exacerbated it. He knew exactly how big of an idiot he was for letting Stiles worm his way into his heart, for not having any defenses up against it.

Knowing better didn’t keep it from hurting.

Derek was almost to the door when he felt Stiles hand on his wrist. Stiles’ long, sinuous fingers, the ones Derek was so obsessed with, felt reassuring as they tugged Derek to a halt.

“When I said you weren’t climbing out the window,” Stiles said, voice husky, “I didn’t mean for you to walk out the door.”

And then they were crashing together. It was just like Derek had imagined but better, of course it was better, with Stiles reality was better than whatever paltry ideas he could conjure in his mind.

Stiles was _real_. He was warm, and strong, and Derek came alive in his arms. It was easy as breathing to delve a hand into Stiles’ hair and keep him fixed to his mouth. It felt natural to dart forward and nip at Stiles’ plush lips.

He was a live wire and when he and Stiles were touching the circuit was complete. Derek burned from the inside out when Stiles’ hands were on him, tugging at his clothing, pushing him towards the bed.

Derek couldn’t help but moan when Stiles got his shirt off and his pants unbuttoned and then his lips, tongue, teeth were everywhere, alternating between soft kisses and harsh bites before he laved his tongue over the spot like a salve.

Derek gripped Stiles’ hips, ran a hand over his chest, tweaked a nipple just to hear Stiles’ gasp. He tugged lightly at Stiles’ mussed hair, bit at his throat, and flipped them over.

Looking down at Stiles, seeing the want reflected back, made everything worth it. They fell together once more and Derek felt alive, alive, alive.

* * *

Morning came too soon and forced Derek out of bed. He had the earliest match and needed to be up and gone ten minutes ago to make it to the courts in time. He felt the now-familiar tug at his heart as he slid from Stiles’ arms and out of the room.

In the end, Derek made it to his match on time, but at what cost? Sure, he was winning, he felt invigorated, but he felt the same way when he was lying comfortably in Stiles’ arms.

That was a thought for later, after the match. He was so close, just a match away from winning. It was the semi-finals, and winning would make leaving Stiles that morning worth it. If he won this match, there would only be one more keeping him from a trophy, keeping him from retiring, keeping him from Stiles.

It was 30-love, Derek was up, and he was ready to win.

He had that killer instinct.

The ball sped toward him, racing him to the backcourt and Derek sprinted, dove, made contact. He swung his racket and sent the ball hurtling back over the net, even as he crashed to the ground.

“40-love,” the umpire’s voice echoed through the stadium, but to Derek everything was white noise. His senses were too focused on the sudden, blinding pain radiating from his lower back. “Match point.”

He tried to move a little bit, stretching out the spasming muscles, but all he could do was hiss. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to open his eyes. Off to the sidelines, he could see Deaton begin to move toward him, but Derek waved him off.

One point.

He was one serve away from a win.

One serve away from going to the finals of Wimbledon, a moment he’d been dreaming of for his entire career.

No, longer. His entire _life_.

Ignoring the pain was impossible, but Derek struggled to his feet anyway. Every movement hurt, no matter how slight, but Derek still beckoned the ball boy to give him a ball.

He bounced the ball once, twice, and then tossed it into the air. The movement tugged at his angry muscles and they rioted, cramping. Derek managed to hit the ball, but only barely, it was no more than sheer luck.

He faulted, the ball striking the middle of the net.

The serve wasn’t even close, he needed to put power behind it to get it over the net, let alone give his opponent a challenge. What Derek needed was to end the game, and quickly.

Knowing that it would hurt didn’t help. There was no way to brace himself, so Derek threw himself into motion before he could second-guess the action.

He tossed the ball into the air, brought his racket up, and _swung._

The pain was enough to blind him, but Derek managed to stay upright, to stay focused, at least long enough to see his opponent falter, his steps stuttering as Derek’s serve flew past him.

“Match, Derek Hale,” rang through the stadium, but all Derek could focus on was that he was free.

He collapsed to the ground, lying on his back as Deaton rushed toward him.

The pain was incredible, but so was the fact that Derek would be playing for the championship.

* * *

It wasn’t until Derek was sprawled in his hotel room that he learned of Stiles’ fate.

Derek was laid out on one side of his bed, Deaton leaning over him as he worked Derek’s back, as Boyd lounged on the other. Tournament coverage droned quietly in the background, but Derek’s ears perked up at the sound of Stiles’ name.

“Turn that up, would you?”

“The tournament saw not one, but two upsets today as Derek Hale, despite being on the brink of retirement, brought down American Matt Daehler. The other shock came when American sweetheart Stiles Stilinski lost to Jackson Whittemore. Whittemore and Hale will play in the finals in two days time.”

The report went to commercial, but Derek had already tuned out.

Stiles had lost.

Stiles fucking lost.

What the actual fuck?

“Stiles lost?” It didn’t sound any more real out loud.

“Yeah, Whittemore was vicious. Stilinski’s game was off. His serve just wasn’t there.”

“Fuck.”

“Well it’s not as if he can blame you, is it?”

Derek didn’t bother responding.

On the one hand, Derek supposed he was glad he wasn’t playing Stiles in the finals. On the other, he was devastated for Stiles; he knew how much Stiles wanted to win.

Eventually, Derek’s stony silence bothered Boyd enough for him to leave, muttering about seeking out Erica again. Deaton, too, finished and left in silence, but not before cautioning Derek to rest as much as possible in the lead-up to his final match.

But Derek wouldn’t be able to rest until he saw Stiles. After sliding into a pair of sweatpants and whatever shirt looked clean, he got his car and went to Stiles’ new place.

Stiles didn’t say anything when he opened the door, just stepped back and let Derek enter. Stiles led him to the kitchen and finally let loose.

“I told you I had to focus, Derek,” Stiles said, aggressively tossing fruit into a blender. “A few days, that’s all I wanted. But no, instead you sneak into my room. And might I add that you weren’t supposed to know where I was staying.”

“I figured it out.”

“Please, Scott has a worse poker face than you do, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. But that didn’t give you the right to show up. Not only that, you didn’t have the decency to spend the night.”

“I did,” Derek protested. “It sucked leaving you in the morning, but I had the early match and I figured you would want the sleep.”

“Stop lying, Derek! I was just some ass you picked up. Well, this fine ass is going back home to work on his serve.”

“Stiles, I’m sorry about your match, really I am. But please don’t go.”

“Why, because you need to fuck me before the finals?”

“That’s why you think I’m here?”

“It’s not? Really, Derek? Be honest, not even a little bit?” Stiles put a whole fucking banana in the blender and yeah, Derek got it. Stiles words hit him like a physical blow and he couldn’t help flinching. “Ha! See, no. I know you want me to think we were falling in love or some bullshit, but the only thing you fell in love with this week was winning.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is! And I know because I love winning more than anything. More than any _one_.”

“Don’t say that,” Derek pleaded. “You don’t mean it.”

“I do. Love means nothing in tennis. Zero. It only means you lose.” Stiles’ face was shuttered of emotion and Derek _hated_ that. The fact that Stiles felt a need to wear a mask around Derek hurt more than his words.

Stiles turned the blender on and Derek knew the conversation was over. At least for now.

Derek let himself out of the apartment, but not before seeing Mr. Stilinski reviewing Stiles’ game tape in the living room. He couldn’t help but pause at seeing Stiles in action.

“He’s dropping his arm too soon after his serve,” Derek told Mr. Stilinski.

Mr. Stilinski didn’t say anything. Derek didn’t blame him.


	11. Chapter 11

Derek wasn’t wallowing.

Wallowing required junk food and movies.

Derek was resting. He was following doctor’s orders. Despite his desire to eat a tub of ice cream, he was still on his strict training diet, so he made do with protein shakes. It really wasn’t the same.

Instead of movies he forced himself to review game tape of Jackson Whittemore. If he couldn’t be on the court practicing, at least he could do a little research into his opponent.

Apparently having forgiven Derek’s taciturn mood, Boyd had deigned to join him. Scott was also there, but Derek wasn’t entirely clear on why.

“You’ve got to clear your head, mate,” Boyd advised. “Forget about him. Love is shit, just like he said.”

So, fine. Maybe Derek had relayed everything Stiles had told Derek the previous day. That still didn’t make what he was doing wallowing.

“Man, Boyd’s right. Not about the love being shit part, but you’ve got to keep your head clear going into this game.” Derek hadn’t said anything to Scott, so he was operating under the assumption that Scott had gotten Stiles’ version of events. Derek was dying to ask, but he decided a) that was a little too high school, and b) he really didn’t want to know.

“You’re just saying that because Stiles is out of the tournament,” Derek grumbled. “Shouldn’t you be off sucking up to Jackson, anyway?”

“Nah, I took care of that at breakfast.”

“Look,” Boyd said. “You just used him the same way he was using you. Now you’re in the finals, and it’s time to move on. Same as he would have.”

“I don’t want to move on.“

“Derek, dude, you have to,” Scott said, uncharacteristically serious. “Maybe not forever, because, let’s face it, I’ve known Stiles for years and I still can’t predict what he’ll do at any given time, but at least until after the finals. Hold on to hope if you want. Because who knows, maybe he will be ready to listen then. But for now, you’ve gotta take care of yourself.”

It wasn’t that Derek couldn’t see the merit in what Scott and Boyd were saying. He did. He not only understood, he agreed with them.

But it wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t simply put his feelings on hold, not when they were all he could concentrate on. How could they not understand that asking him to ignore his feelings was like asking him to learn how to live without breathing?

There had been many moments in his life in which Derek wished he could turn his feelings off. Mostly after Kate, but a few times since. Sure, those painful memories were dulled now, but at the time Derek would have set himself on fire to feel anything other than the constant cycle of _anger, guilt, regret, despair._

Turning off his emotions wasn’t an option. Maybe, Derek figured, he could use them to win instead. To win for Stiles. It wouldn’t make up for what he’d done, for how thoughtlessly he’d treated Stiles.

But at least Jackass Whittemore wouldn’t win.

Scott brought Derek back to the present when he burst out of the bathroom where he’d been conducting a phone call.

“Awesome news,” Scott said, throwing himself onto the bed between Derek and Boyd.

“You’re 27, mate. Finally getting potty trained now isn’t something worth celebrating,” Boyd said.

“Fuck off,” Scott said, but he couldn’t keep the grin from his mouth. It was setting Derek on edge. “I just made a huge deal on your behalf, Derek. Big money. We’re talking multi-media ad campaign. Photo spreads, billboards, commercials. Your face is going to be everywhere.”

“Who needs Wimbledon?” Derek asked drily. “My real dreams are coming true.”

“Mock all you want, but I bet you’ll change your tune when the checks get cashed.”

Derek didn’t bother arguing. The posing and acting would be annoying, but entirely worth it to give himself a nest egg. He fell asleep daydreaming of telling that stuffy country club to screw off.

He woke a few hours later, much too hot. Shifting around, he realized why; Boyd and Scott had both crashed out on the bed with him. Not wanting to bother them or answer any questions, Derek slithered out of their impromptu puppy pile, slid on his shoes, and out the door.

He drove on autopilot, which did him no good. Instead of his parents’ house, he’d wound up in the cursed alley by Stiles’ apartment.

Stiles probably wasn’t there anymore. It would make sense for him to have already packed and to be halfway across the Atlantic. The idea that Stiles was gone hurt, but not seeing him was probably for the best.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

He drove on, intent on getting to his parents’ before nightfall. Once there, he found his mother in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and his father out back setting rabbit traps.

His heart broke for poor Peter Rabbit.

Protesting, he learned long ago, did no good when faced with his mother, so he sat down at the table and chatted with her as she finished cooking. No matter how many times he offered to help she declined, which was probably for the best. Derek had started one too many fires in that kitchen for his mother to ever truly trust him.

“So,” his father said once they’re serving up dinner. Even Cora had slithered out of the woodwork to join them, but she wisely kept her mouth shut. “What brings you home mid-tournament? Shouldn’t you be training?”

“Can’t,” Derek said. “Doctor’s orders. I’ll be good to play tomorrow, but I’m not supposed to train in the meantime.”

“Well, it’s nice to have you hear, darling.”

“I’d like to make a toast,” his father said. “To family. We’ve all struggled in our different ways this year.” At this, Derek catches a sly glance from his mother and he knows she wants to ask about Stiles but is refraining. Derek is infinitely grateful. “But we’ve all kept in mind that family is important and Derek, we’re so proud of you. We can’t wait to cheer for you tomorrow, but we’ll continue to be proud no matter what happens."

“Yes, we could all do better to love and support each other unconditionally,” his mother said, cutting a glare at Cora. “To the future.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Derek said. “Family, and unconditional love.” He studiously avoids looking at Cora. “And I’d like you all to come to my match tomorrow.”

“Oh, but Derek,” his mother said. “We’re bad luck. We couldn’t possibly do that to you.”

“Mum it’s fine. I don’t really believe in luck anymore. Tomorrow is going to be my final match, ever, and I can’t imagine you not being there. So please, come.”

“So what you’re saying is Jackson’s a safe bet, then?” Derek figured Cora was lucky Deaton had banned him from physical exertion, because she was just asking for a fight. Boxing titles or no, he figured he had a chance at taking her.

*** * ***

The hotel had offered him a nicer room when Derek had won the semi-finals, but he’d declined. Like Boyd had reminded him, you don’t change up your routine when it’s working for you.

Obviously, Stiles threw a wrench in that plan, but Derek was dedicated to doing the best he could. He bid his modest room goodbye as he set out for the final match of Wimbledon, grateful for how well it had treated him.

His pre-match routine became different, however, when he stepped into the lift.

“Good luck, Mr. Hale,” the bellboy riding alongside him said.

“Thank you,” Derek managed.

The lift doors open and he was stunned. The lobby was lined with hotel employees, all there to greet _him_. He walked the gauntlet, shaking hands and smiling through selfies.

“We’re rooting for you.”

“England loves you.”

“Good luck, Derek.”

The kind words kept coming and Derek was struck speechless. It was all he could do to thank them all for their outpouring of love and support. He’d never in his wildest dreams imagined this many people would care how his match ended.

Derek had been so stuck in his head, so hung up on thoughts of Stiles, he hadn’t stopped to think about what this match would mean to others.

Initially, he may have imagined that other people pinning their hopes on him would be too much pressure. Instead, he felt invigorated.

Losing Stiles had skewed his perspective, but all of these people, they reminded him of what he was really playing for. Himself, sure, but his country as well. He wanted to do them proud. They gave him something worth fighting for.

Finally, he made it to the waiting car and was whisked off to the tournament grounds. Scott met him and gave him the run-down on what interviews he would need to do before the match. Most of the press would wait until after the game was played, but a few outlets wanted him now.

Which was how Derek found himself wearing a mic, sitting across from Marin Morrell in a live televised interview.

“Derek, thanks for taking the time before your match to sit down with me,” Marin said.

“I’m happy to,” Derek said. “Might be my last one of these, anyway.”

“Don’t talk like that! Your whole country’s cheering for you!”

“I know, it’s kind of surreal. I expected to be sitting at the telly cheering for Danny Maehalani right about now.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m upset about the way things turned out.”

“Me neither. I’m thrilled to be here, of course. I just didn’t expect it. I came into this tournament with low expectations. Hoping to get through a round or two, end my career on a high note. I just didn’t think I’d be playing for a trophy.”

“Now, I’d like to address this match in a moment, but first I have to ask about your relationship with Stiles Stilinksi. Neither of you have commented on it publicly, but you’ve been linked together a lot recently.”

Derek knew this question was coming, but he still hated it. Scott had briefed him earlier – what he should and shouldn’t say, what the news had been reporting about them so far. Derek had studiously avoided any speculation about their relationship, so he was shocked to find that most of the public opinion seemed to be that they were fast friends who’d had a falling out. Reports seemed to be that Stiles was a bad influence, leading Derek to get in a physical altercation with Jackson Whittemore before skeeving off and missing crucial training sessions.

“Yeah, a lot of people have heard about me and Stiles hanging out. I guess the first thing to clear up is that I’m bisexual. Stiles and I were dating. And I’ve seen a lot of reports that suggest Stiles was a bad influence, but that’s bullshit. Stiles is a great man. I was the one who let him down, and for that I’ll always be sorry. I’m not in the habit of pouring my heart out on TV—I’m not in the habit of pouring my heart out at all, so forgive me—but Stiles Stilinski is the reason I’m here today. And that’s all I really came here to say.”

Derek couldn’t bear to sit there a moment longer. He’d just come out on national television. He had basically just declared his _love_ for Stiles Stilinski on television. Without waiting for Marin to ask a follow-up, Derek unclipped his microphone and walked away.

Boyd met him in the locker room, and Derek was grateful for his steady presence.

“I’ve got a new theory about tennis,” was the first thing he said. Derek knew he must have seen the interview but he was giving Derek the space to process and Derek could have hugged him. Instead, he set his bag down and began to unpack.

“What’s that?”

“You hit the ball back over the net as hard and as deep and as often as possible.”

“Yeah?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” said Boyd.

“Solid plan. I like it.”

One of the Wimbledon officials stepped into the locker room, bringing with him a harsh dose of reality. “Excuse me, Mr. Hale? I was just wondering if you would like to use the Number One dressing room.”

Derek glanced at Boyd before answering. “I appreciate it, but I’m going to stay here.”

“I thought you’d say that,” the official said. “Good luck, Mr. Hale.”

“Thank you,” Derek said as the man left.

Boyd stood, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “That’s my cue. Good luck, my friend.”


	12. Chapter 12

Stepping out onto the court felt surreal. Derek knew he’d done it with no problems over the course of the tournament, but none of those matches were the _finals_.

This was insane.

Derek wasn’t ready.

Then Derek looked to the crowd, scanned the countless faces for his family and, finding them, felt a little more grounded. He tuned into the crowd and heard, overwhelmingly, _his_ name being chanted.

His entire life had been in preparation for this moment. This was where he was meant to be. Derek threw his shoulders back; he belonged there. He deserved this.

He smiled.

When the umpire settled the crowd to introduce Derek and Jackson, to make sure they understood the rules and were ready for a clean match, Derek almost thought that Jackson wouldn’t shake his hand. After all, this close to him, Derek could see where his punch had created a bright bruise on Jackson’s sharp cheekbones. The bruise had been skillfully covered—no press had managed to report on it—but Derek could see it.

That bruise galvanized him. Derek was going to take Jackson down again, in a sanctioned match this time. No matter what they were being tested again, Derek was better than Jackass Whittemore. He would happily prove it again.

The match started with Jackson’s blazing serve, the ball flying across the court over a hundred miles per hour. Suddenly, Derek wasn’t smiling anymore.

He was, however, filled with grim determination and Jackson wasn’t going to scare him off. Derek imagined the way Jackson had crumpled when Derek had punched him and funneled all of his energy into humiliating Jackson once again.

Jackson’s focused, aggressive style of playing had Derek sprinting all over the court, fighting for every point in every game. Derek battled back with a little more power and unpredictability.

They were game-for-game; even when Jackson got lucky and won a game straight through, Derek battled back and swept the next one. It was vicious and frenetic and everything Derek had been dreaming of in a game of tennis.

Jackson managed to win the first set, sneaking past Derek’s defenses with a well-placed lob. Derek shook it off and prepared for the next set.

Shaking it off wasn’t enough, and Jackson took the first three games, almost effortlessly. Jackson started the process all over again, tossing the ball high in the air, his serve unimaginably powerful. Derek lunged for it, but didn’t quite make it, the ball flying past him on its way out of bounds.

Instead of harmlessly striking one of the padded walls, the serve hit the ball boy. The meter on the stadium wall clocked the serve at 144mph and Derek felt sick as he rushed to the boy’s aid. Looking down, Derek recognized the boy, whose face was already forming a welt, much like the one Jackson has hidden under make-up. But the boy sat up, seemingly ready to get back to work, and Derek felt a knot of tension in his chest loosen.

“You were with me at my first match,” Derek said, hoping to distract the boy from the pain.

“Yes, sir.”

“You did a good job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Ready to go again?”

The boy grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, yes sir.”

“Well, let’s get to it then.”

Derek gave the boy a hand up, and the kid resumed his place at the wall, still in the line of fire.

When Derek walked onto the court, he thought he was committed. It had seemed like he had all the fire in the world burning inside him to win. Seeing Jackson’s punchable face had stoked that fire but it wasn’t until the ball boy stood back up to resume his post that Derek snapped.

He was going to evicerate Jackson, and he was going to enjoy every second of it. It no longer mattered that he hadn’t seen Stiles in almost 48 hours, the pain in his back was something he would force himself to ignore. The only thing that mattered was this: beating Jackson.

Unfortunately, all of the drive in the world didn’t make Derek a markedly better player. He still strained, and sprinted, and tumbled, and missed. Jackson did, too, of course, but Jackson had the lead. Jackson had the luxury of missing shot or two because he had the upper hand. It was Derek who had to claw tooth and nail for every single point.

Jackson was up a whole set. Their current set was a heated affair; Jackson ahead four games to Derek’s one.

Derek was flagging, the struggle only made worse when it began to rain. What started as a quaint afternoon sprinkle quickly evolved into a fierce shower, but the game hadn’t been halted.

Jackson had Derek locked in a volley at the net, the ball ricocheting between their rackets. Derek got lucky, managing to turn his racket _just so_ to send the ball out of Jackson’s easy reach. But Jackson wasn’t ranked best in the world for nothing; his footwork was quick and sure, even on the damp grass, his sight obscured by the then downpour of rain. Jackson reached, reached and sent the ball hurtling back toward Derek who was forced to scramble for it. The slick ground put Derek to at a disadvantage, wiping his feet out from under him just millimeters from the ball.

Derek went down, hard. The point went to Jackson, making the score now five games to one in the second set. It was tempting to just lay there, thinking about what he could do better, differently, if only he hurt just a little less. But the umpire halted play as the rain beat down, sending an army of courtside assistants sprinting ever closer to Derek’s prone form with a tarp to protect the court from getting any more wet.

At the last second, Derek rolled to his feet, sprinting out of the way of the tarp and back into the player’s tunnel. He retreated to his locker room where he managed to towel off a bit, but he was still dripping wet, drowning in self-pity when he heard footsteps approach.

“I thought you’d gone,” Derek said from where he sat, shocked to find Stiles casually leaning against a row of lockers.

“Me too,” Stiles smiled, but it looked sad. “Having a rough day?”

Derek huffed a laugh. “Disastrous.”

“Except you didn’t go soft when the ball boy got hit.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Why are the British apologizing all the time? Don’t apologize for not going soft Derek.”

Tension hung in the air a moment, as both of them heard what Stiles had just said. Then the moment broke, and they were both laughing. Giant, rolling laughs that burst out of them, filling the room with mirth, bolstering them.

Stiles crossed to sit Derek’s side, leaned into him as their laughter petered out. Derek relished Stiles’ heat, his contact, the idea that maybe he hadn’t irrevocably fucked up after all.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said again, and Stiles hoped he understood everything he was trying to infuse in those two words. _I’m sorry for leaving; I’m sorry for not listening to what you needed; I’m sorry for hurting you; I’m sorry I broke your trust; I’m sorry I outed us on national TV when you said you wanted to keep things lowkey._

“Derek, you don’t need to apologize to me. I love you. Apologize to the hundreds of thousands of people who are rooting for you.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you’re in a packed stadium of people who love you and want you to win. Don’t let them down. They’re the ones who deserve your apology, not—“

“Not that part, idiot,” Derek said.

“Oh, that. I love you, Derek. And, yeah, maybe we’ve barely known each other a few weeks and maybe we’ll implode, like, immediately, but I love you. You make me happy. You make me want to play better. And maybe make me reckless but you also make me feel _alive_ , and I love you. You _came out for me_ , Derek. That’s not the kind of thing a guy takes lightly.”

“I love you,” Derek said. “I’ve never felt more myself than when I’m with you. You make me laugh and have fun in a way I haven’t in _years_ , Stiles. I had forgotten that I could be so careless, but I don’t ever want to be careless with you.”

“Glad we cleared that up, then,” Stiles said, collapsing into Derek and kissing him senseless. Derek could have stayed there all day; he didn’t care that he was sopping wet or that a stadium of people were waiting for him. When Stiles’ mouth was on his, it was all he could do to keep breathing.

“Okay,” Stiles sat back, clapping his hands. “Real talk, why the fuck is your game so messed up?”

“God, Stiles,” Derek said, deflating. “I’m just so tired. He’s wearing me down at every turn. My back is killing me and I just don’t know how I’m going to finish it, let alone beat him.”

“Pull it together, Hale,” Stiles snapped. “You’re defending my honor again. You better fucking beat him for me.”

“Stiles—”

“Shut up, I’m kidding. Mostly. But he’s honestly not that hard once you know his tells.”

“I studied his game tapes, I can’t find any.”

“Well, what did I tell you, Derek? I love research. I could’ve been a detective in another life. So, here’s your cheat sheet. If he bounces the ball once instead of twice, he’s going for the body. If he shifts back on his left heel and shows you his toe, he’s going to hit deep. Got it?”

“One bounce, body. If I see his toe, he’s hitting deep.”

“That’s it,” Stiles said. “You’ve got this, Derek. The fans have your back. And so do I. No matter what.”

“You’re right. I can do this,” Derek said, pushing to his feet. Every part of his body ached, but with Stiles standing next to him, he could ignore it.

Derek would win or lose on his own merit, regardless of the fact that Stiles had come back. But his support sure did a lot to bolster Derek, giving him the surety in walking back onto the court, head held high, ready to play his heart out once more.  
  
Derek had walked into the locker room disheartened, but he returned invigorated.

It was a long, arduous battle. When Derek returned to the courts, they were still wet; the balls would be slower, their footwork sloppier. To keep alive, Derek had to battle down Jackson, and come back to win the set.

Stiles’ advice didn’t keep Derek’s back from hurting, his breaths from coming out in ragged pants, or the sweat from dripping down and burning his eyes. Instead, it gave Derek the confidence and insight to claw back toward victory.

The other ace up Derek’s sleeve was that he was used to playing on grass courts. The terrain, no matter how damp, was familiar from all his years of training. Jackson, on the other hand, was used to clay courts and it showed. He had a harder time adjusting his footwork and finding his balance. He would over extend on a swing, used to his feet gripping firm, but instead go sprawling. Derek was ruthless as he kept aiming balls just out of Jackson’s reach.

Derek managed to win the second set, and the third, but Jackson seemed to rally halfway through. He became accustomed to the slick grass and was back in top form. Derek was flagging, and Jackson took the fourth set, forcing them to go for a fifth.

They took a quick break between sets, just long enough for them to catch their breath and guzzle some water. Derek should have known that Jackson wouldn’t take the turn of events quietly.

“First Argent, now Stilinski? What’s your plan, fuck your way through the best players in the world then ruin their careers? You’re a piece of shit, Hale.”

“How’s your eye treating you, Whittemore? Just because you put make-up on doesn’t mean I don’t remember.”

Derek kept walking. A week ago, what Jackson had said may have riled him. Hell, even a couple hours ago. But Derek knew that Stiles loved him. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, and found Stiles’ eyes. Stiles was cheering just as hard as the rest of the arena, if not louder. Stiles loved him, and was an amazing tennis player, and Derek hadn’t ruined anything for once.

He served the ball.

The set was fierce. Derek was pretty sure he was bleeding from _somewhere_ , but he ignored the pain, he couldn’t feel anything over the surging adrenaline. Game one went to Derek, but Jackson took the second and third. Derek responded by winning the next two. Then Jackson won again, but for every one game Jackson, took, Derek took two more. Suddenly, Derek was one game away from winning Wimbledon.

He bounced the ball, ready to serve. He could do it, he could do it, he could do it.

“Ace,” the umpire called. “Fifteen-love.”

_That’s it_ , Derek told himself. He just had to keep up the rhythm. Just three more serves and it’d all be over.

He tossed the ball and served again, sending the ball hurtling straight toward Jackson, who didn’t manage to get out of the way in time. The ball struck him in the chest.

“Thirty-love.”

_Two more, Hale. You can do it._

Derek wound up again, but this time, Jackson managed to return the ball just out of Derek’s reach.

“Thirty-fifteen.”

_That’s okay,_ Derek told himself. _No problem. Two more, that’s it, just two more serves and it’s all over_.

Derek let loose, sending Jackson scrambling across the court. Jackson parried, and Derek hit back. Then he was lobbing the ball just over the net and Jackson couldn’t quite make it.

“Forty-fifteen. Match point.”

_One more_. _Just another serve. You’ve done it a million times._

Derek faulted. The ball struck the net; it wasn’t even close to clearing it. Derek knew without looking that Jackson was smirking but Jackson didn’t get the last word.

He reset.

This time, the ball cleared the net. But Jackson was ready, darting quickly to lob it back over the net. Derek hit it back, then so did Jackson; they were locked in a volley that felt like it would never end and then Derek did it. He hit it just out of Jackson’s reach.

It was over.

“Out!” It didn’t matter whose call it was, it brought Derek crashing back down to Earth.

“Excuse me,” Derek said, striding towards the umpire’s stand. “The ball was good!”

“The ball was out,” the umpire repeated.

“How could you possibly say that? It was in. Everyone saw it!”

“The ball was out. Please resume play. Match point.”

Derek spun back to the starting line. He closed his eyes and counted down, _three, two, one_.

He served.

Jackson zigged when he should have zagged and that was it.

Derek had won.

Derek Hale, ranked 119th in the world at the start of the tournament, had won Wimbledon in a true underdog story.

Thoughts weren’t concrete, it wasn’t Derek’s choice to collapse to the ground, but when he came to after blacking out from _pure joy_ , he was knelt on the ground, hands clenched in victory.

The battle was over, the war was won.

Derek stood to the immense cheers of what seemed to be the entire stadium. Everything was just raucous white noise as Derek approached the net to shake Jackson and the umpire’s hands.

Jesus, it didn’t feel real. Derek hit a ball or two into the stands before spinning, eyes searching for the ball boy. Derek saw him, bruise bloomed bright on his face, but his smile incredible, and handed him his racket.

The kid’s face lit up and Derek was glad to have made that happen, but his mind had already moved on. He vaulted the wall that separated the stands from the court, and made a beeline to his family. His father was weeping, his mother had a smile that threatened to crack her face, and Cora was jumping up and down.

“I thought you bet on Jackson,” Derek said.

“Never bet against family,” Cora said, continuing to bounce around. Derek noticed the way her hand was clasped tightly in Lydia Martin’s, who stood, seemingly unaffected, next to Cora.

“Congratulations, Derek,” she may have seemed unaffected, but her tone was kind and Derek would take it. He needed to sit down with Cora and have a serious fucking discussion about boundaries, but right now he was too happy to care.

After hugging his parents, Derek kept moving. He’d seen Stiles in the stands earlier, knew exactly where he’d be; Derek just needed to get to him. The crowd parted for Derek, as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea and sooner than he thought possible, Stiles was in front of him, smiling stupidly and Derek had never thought he could be this happy in his entire life.

“Good game, Derek,” Stiles said.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Derek replied. And then he was kissing the life out of Stiles, clutching him desperately; happy that for once, everything had turned out all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this. Special thanks to my friend Poppy for the encouragement that kept me writing as quickly as I did. 
> 
> I'm also [PilgrimDetectives](http://www.pilgrimdetectives.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been wanting to read a Sterek Wimbledon AU for years, but one never popped into existence, so I decided to write my own. Sorry in advance for anything I get wrong about tennis, everything I know I learned from watching Wimbledon a bunch of times or Mario Tennis.


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